atjucjJLji-    \ 


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Other  Books  of  Essays  by  the  Same  Author: 

"Journeys  to  Bagdad" 
Fifth  printing. 

"There's  Pippins  and  Cheese  to  Come" 
Third  printing. 

"Chimney-Pot  Papers" 
Second  printing. 

Also  a  novel,  published  by  The  Century  Co., 
New  York  City, 

"Luea  Sarto" 
Second  printing. 


Hints  to  Pilgrims 


HINTS 

TO 

PIICRIMS 

BY 
CHARLES  S.BROOKS 
^^thPiotwres  hy 
FlorenceMinard 


newhaven: 
"k\le.  unive^sitypl^bss 

LON»0N:HUMPHHpy  MILFOHP 

CXFORp  TJNIVEIVSITYPRPSS 

MDCCCCXKI 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
Yale  University  Press. 


Publisher's  Note: 

The  Yale  University  Press  makes  grateful 
acknowledgment  to  the  Editors  of  The 
Century  Magazine,  The  Tale  Review,  The 
Atlantic  Monthly  and  The  Literary  Review 
for  permission  to  include  in  the  present 
volume  essays  of  which  they  were  the 
original  publishers. 


To  Edward  B.  Greene, 
'  as  witness  of  our  long  friendship  and  my  high  regard. 


Contents. 

I. 

Hints  to  Pilgrims 11 

11. 

I  Plan  a  Vacation   . 

27 

III. 

At  a  Toy- Shop  Window    . 

42 

IV. 

Sic  Transit —     .... 

55 

V. 

The  Posture  of  Authors     . 

59 

VI. 

After-Dinner  Pleasantries 

77 

VII. 

Little  Candles    .... 

86 

VIII. 

A  Visit  to  a  Poet    .      .      . 

92 

IX. 

Autumn  Days  .... 

103 

X. 

On  Finding  a  Plot  . 

107 

XI. 

Circus  Days       .... 

122 

XII. 

In  Praise  of  a  Lawn-Mower 

133 

XIII. 

On  Dropping  Off  to  Sleep 

138 

XIV. 

Who  Was  Jeremy? 

147 

XV. 

A  Chapter  for  Children     . 

153 

XVI. 

The  Crowded  Curb       .      . 

171 

XVII. 

A  Corner  for  Echoes  . 

178 

Hints  to  Pilgrims. 

WHEN  a  man's  thoughts  in  older  time  were 
set  on  pilgrimage,  his  neighbors  came  for- 
ward with  suggestions.  One  of  them  saw 
that  his  boots  were  freshly  tapped.  Another  was  care- 
ful that  his  hose  were  darned  with  honest  wool — an 
oldish  aunt,  no  doubt,  with  beeswax  and  thimble  and 
glasses  forward  on  her  nose.  A  third  sly  creature 
fetched  in  an  embroidered  wallet  to  hold  an  extra  shift, 
and  hinted  in  return  for  a  true  nail  from  the  holy 
cross.  If  he  were  a  bachelor,  a  tender  garter  was 
offered  him  by  a  lonely  maiden  of  the  village,  and  was 
acknowledged  beneath  the  moon.  But  the  older  folk 
who  had  made  the  pilgrimage  took  the  settle  and  fell 
to  argument  on  the  merit  of  the  inns.  They  scrawled 
maps  for  his  guidance  on  the  hearth,  and  told  him  the 
sights  that  must  not  be  missed.  Here  he  must  veer 
off  for  a  holy  well.  Here  he  must  beware  a  treacher- 
ous bog.  Here  he  must  ascend  a  steeple  for  the  view. 
They  cautioned  him  to  keep  upon  the  highway.  Was 
it  not  Christian,  they  urged,  who  was  lost  in  By-path 
Meadow?  Again  they  talked  of  thieves  and  warned 
him  to  lay  a  chair  against  the  door.  Then  a  honey 
syllabub  was  drunk  in  clinking  cups,  and  they  made  a 
night  of  it. 

Or  perhaps  our  pilgrim  belonged  to  a  guild  which — 
by  an  agreeable  precedent — voted  that  its  members 


1^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

walk  with  him  to  the  city's  gate  and  present  from  each 
a  half- penny  to  support  him  on  the  journey.  The 
greasy  pockets  yield  their  treasure.  He  rattles  on 
both  sides  with  generous  copper.  Here,  also,  is  a  salve 
for  man  and  beast — a  receipt  for  a  fever-draught. 
We  may  fancy  now  the  pilgrim's  mule  plowing  up  the 
lazy  dust  at  the  turn  of  the  road  as  he  waves  his  last 
farewell.  His  thoughts  already  have  leaped  the  valley 
to  the  misty  country  beyond  the  hills. 

And  now  above  his  dusty  road  the  sun  climbs  the 
exultant  noon.  It  whips  its  flaming  chariot  to  the 
west.  On  the  rim  of  twilight,  like  a  traveler  who  de- 
parts, it  throws  a  golden  offering  to  the  world. 

But  there  are  pilgrims  in  these  later  days,  also, — 
strangers  to  our  own  fair  city,  script  in  wallet  and 
staff  in  hand, — who  come  to  place  their  heavy  tribute 
on  our  shrine.  And  to  them  I  offer  these  few  sug- 
gestions. 

The  double  stars  of  importance — as  in  Baedeker — 
mark  our  restaurants  and  theatres.  Dear  pilgrim, 
put  money  in  thy  purse !  Persuade  your  guild  to  ad- 
vance you  to  a  penny!  They  mark  the  bridges,  the 
shipping,  the  sharp  canyons  of  the  lower  city,  the 
parks — limousines  where  silk  and  lace  play  nurse  to 
lap  dogs — Bufo  on  an  airing,  the  precious  spitz  upon 
a  scarlet  cushion.  They  mark  the  parade  of  wealth, 
the  shops  and  glitter  of  Fifth  Avenue  on  a  winter 
afternoon.  "If  this  is  Fifth  Avenue," — as  I  heard  a 
dazzled  stranger  comment  lately  on  a  bus-top, — "my 
God !  what  must  First  Avenue  be  like !" 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS  13 

And  then  there  are  the  electric  signs — the  mammoth 
kitten  roUing  its  ball  of  silk,  ginger-ale  that  forever 
issues  from  a  bottle,  a  fiery  motor  with  a  flame  of  dust, 
the  Wrigley  triplets  correcting  their  sluggish  livers 
by  exercise  alongside  the  Astor  roof.  Surely  letters 
despatched  home  to  Kalamazoo  deal  excitedly  with 
these  flashing  portents.  And  of  the  railroad  stations 
and  the  Woolworth  Tower  with  its  gothic  pinnacles 
questing  into  heaven,  what  pilgrim  words  are  ade- 
quate! Here,  certainly,  Kalamazoo  is  baffled  and 
must  halt  and  bite  its  pen. 

Nor  can  the  hotels  be  described — ^toppling  struc- 
tures that  run  up  to  thirty  stories — at  night  a  clatter 
in  the  basement  and  a  clatter  on  the  roof — sons  of 
Belial  and  rich  folk  from  Akron  who  are  spending  the 
profit  on  a  few  thousand  hot-water  bottles  and  inner 
tubes — ^what  mad  pursuit!  what  pipes  and  timbrels! 
what  wild  ecstasy !  Do  we  set  a  noisy  band  upon  our 
towers  in  the  hope  that  our  merriment  will  sound  to 
Mars?  Do  we  persuade  them  that  jazz  is  the  music 
of  the  spheres?  But  at  morning  in  these  hotels  are 
thirty  stories  of  snoring  bipeds — exhausted  trousers 
across  the  bed-post,  frocks  that  have  been  rumpled  in 
the  hubbub — tier  on  tier  of  bipeds,  with  sleepy  cur- 
tains drawn  against  the  light.  Boniface,  in  the  olden 
time,  sunning  himself  beneath  his  bush  and  swinging 
dragon,  watching  the  dust  for  travelers,  how  would  he 
be  amazed  at  the  advancement  of  the  inn!  Dear  pil- 
grim, you  must  sag  and  clink  for  entrance  to  the 


1J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

temples  of  our  joyous  gods.  Put  money  in  thy  purse 
and  wire  ahead! 

On  these  streets  there  is  a  roar  of  traffic  that  Baby- 
lon never  heard.  Nineveh  in  its  golden  age  could  have 
packed  itself  with  all  its  splendid  luggage  in  a  single 
building.  Athens  could  have  mustered  in  a  street. 
Our  block-parties  that  are  now  the  fashion — neighbor- 
hood affairs  in  fancy  costumes,  with  a  hot  trombone, 
and  banners  stretched  from  house  to  house — produce 
as  great  an  uproar  as  ever  arose  upon  the  Acropolis. 
And  lately,  when  our  troops  returned  from  overseas 
and  marched  beneath  our  plaster  arches,  Rome  itself 
could  not  have  matched  the  largeness  of  our  triumph. 
Here,  also,  men  have  climbed  up  to  walls  and  battle- 
ments— but  to  what  far  dizzier  heights! — to  towers 
and  windows,  and  to  chimney-tops,  to  see  great 
Pompey  pass  the  streets. 

And  by  what  contrast  shall  we  measure  our  tall 
buildings?  Otus  and  Ephialtes,  who  contracted  once 
to  pile  Pelion  on  top  of  Ossa,  were  evidently  builders 
who  touched  only  the  larger  jobs.  They  did  not  stoop 
to  a  cottage  or  a  bungalow,  but  figured  entirely  on 
such  things  as  arks  and  the  towers  of  Jericho.  When 
old  Cheops  sickened,  it  is  said,  and  thought  of  death, 
they  offered  a  bid  upon  his  pyramid.  Noah,  if  he  was 
indeed  their  customer,  as  seems  likely,  must  have 
fretted  them  as  their  work  went  forward.  Whenever 
a  cloud  appeared  in  the  rainy  east  he  nagged  them  for 
better  speed.  He  prowled  around  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings with  his  cubit  measure  to  detect  any  shortness  in 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS  15 

the  beam.  Or  he  looked  for  knot-holes  in  the  gopher 
wood.  But  Otus  and  Ephialtes  could  not,  with  all 
their  sweating  workmen,  have  fetched  enough  stones 
for  even  the  foundations  of  one  of  our  loftier 
structures. 

The  Tower  of  Babel,  if  set  opposite  Wall  Street, 
would  squat  as  low  as  Trinity :  for  its  top,  when  con- 
fusion broke  off  the  work,  had  advanced  scarcely  more 
than  seven  stories  from  the  pavement.  My  own  win- 
dows, dwarfed  by  my  surroundings,  look  down  from 
as  great  a  height.  Indeed,  I  fancy  that  if  the  famous 
tower  were  my  neighbor  to  the  rear — on  Ninth  Street, 
just  off  the  L — ^its  whiskered  masons  on  the  upmost 
platform  could  have  scraped  acquaintance  with  our 
cook.  They  could  have  gossiped  at  the  noon  hour 
from  gutter  to  sink,  and  eaten  the  crullers  that  the 
kind  creature  tossed  across.  Our  whistling  grocery- 
man  woidd  have  found  a  rival.  And  yet  the  good  folk 
of  the  older  Testament,  ignorant  of  our  accomplish- 
ment to  come,  were  in  amazement  at  the  tower,  and 
strangers  came  in  from  Gilead  and  Beersheba.  Trip- 
pers, as  it  were,  upon  a  holiday — staff  in  hand  and 
pomegranates  in  a  papyrus  bag — locusts  and  wild 
honey,  or  manna  to  sustain  them  in  the  wilderness  on 
their  return — trippers,  I  repeat,  cocked  back  their 
heads,  and  they  counted  the  rows  of  windows  to  the 
top  and  went  off  to  their  far  land  marveling. 

The  Bankers  Trust  Building  culminates  in  a  pyra- 
mid. Where  this  narrows  to  a  point  there  issues  a 
streamer  of  smoke.    I  am  told  that  inside  this  pyra- 


16  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

mid,  at  a  dizzy  height  above  the  street,  there  is  a 
storage  room  for  gold.  Is  it  too  fanciful  to  think  that 
inside,  upon  this  unsunned  heap  of  metal,  there  is  con- 
cealed an  altar  of  Mammon  with  priests  to  feed  the 
fire,  and  that  this  smoke,  rising  in  the  lazy  air,  is  sweet 
in  the  nostrils  of  the  greedy  god? 

There  is  what  seems  to  be  a  chapel  on  the  roof  of 
the  Bush  Terminal.  Gothic  decoration  marks  our 
buildings — the  pointed  arch,  muUions  and  gargoyles. 
There  are  few  nowadays  to  listen  to  the  preaching  of 
the  church,  but  its  symbol  is  at  least  a  pretty  ornament 
on  our  commercial  towers. 

Nor  in  the  general  muster  of  our  sights  must  I 
forget  the  magic  view  from  across  the  river,  in  the  end 
of  a  winter  afternoon,  when  the  lower  city  is  still 
lighted.  The  clustered  windows  shine  as  if  a  larger 
constellation  of  stars  had  met  in  thick  convention. 
But  it  is  to  the  eye  of  one  who  travels  in  the  evening 
mist  from  Staten  Island  that  towers  of  finest  gossamer 
arise.  They  are  built  to  furnish  a  fantastic  dream. 
The  architect  of  the  summer  clouds  has  tried  here  his 
finer  hand. 

It  was  only  lately  when  our  ferry-boat  came  around 
the  point  of  Governor's  Island,  that  I  noticed  how 
sharply  the  chasm  of  Broadway  cuts  the  city.  It  was 
the  twilight  of  a  winter's  day.  A  rack  of  sullen  clouds 
lay  across  the  sky  as  if  they  met  for  mischief,  and  the 
water  was  black  with  wind.  In  the  threatening  ob- 
scurity the  whole  island  seemed  a  mightier  House  of 
Usher,  intricate  of  many  buildings,  cleft  by  Broadway 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS  17 

in  its  middle,  and  ready  to  fall  prostrate  into  the  dark 
waters  of  the  tarn.  But  until  the  gathering  tempest 
rises  and  an  evil  moon  peers  through  the  crevice,  as  in 
the  story,  we  must  judge  the  city  to  be  safe. 

Northward  are  nests  of  streets,  thick  with  children. 
One  might  think  that  the  old  woman  who  lived  in  a 
shoe  dwelt  hard  by,  with  all  of  her  married  sisters 
roundabout.  Children  scurry  under  foot,  oblivious  of 
contact.  They  shoot  their  marbles  between  our  feet, 
and  we  are  the  moving  hazard  of  their  score.  They 
chalk  their  games  upon  the  pavement.  Baseball  is 
played,  long  and  thin,  between  the  gutters.  Peddlers' 
carts  line  the  curb — carrots,  shoes  and  small  hardware 
— and  there  is  shrill  chaffering  all  the  day.  Here  are 
dim  restaurants,  with  truant  smells  for  their  adver- 
tisement. In  one  of  these  I  was  served  unleavened 
bread.  Folk  from  Damascus  would  have  felt  at  home, 
and  yet  the  shadow  of  the  Woolworth  Tower  was 
across  the  roof.  The  loaf  was  rolled  thin,  like  a  chair- 
pad  that  a  monstrous  fat  man  habitually  sits  upon. 
Indeed,  I  looked  sharply  at  my  ample  waiter  on  the 
chance  that  it  was  he  who  had  taken  his  ease  upon  my 
bread.  If  Kalamazoo  would  tire  for  a  night  of  the 
Beauty  Chorus  and  the  Wrigley  triplets,  and  would 
walk  these  streets  of  foreign  population,  how  amazing 
would  be  its  letters  home ! 

Our  Greenwich  Village,  also,  has  its  sights.  Time 
was  when  we  were  really  a  village  beyond  the  city. 
Even  more  remotely  there  were  farms  upon  us  and 
comfortable  burghers  jogged  up  from  town  to  find 


18  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  peace  of  country.  There  was  once  a  swamp  where 
Washington  Square  now  is,  and,  quite  lately,  masons 
in  demolishing  a  foundation  struck  into  a  conduit  of 
running  water  that  still  drains  our  pleasant  park. 
When  Broadway  was  a  muddy  post-road,  stretching 
for  a  weary  week  to  Albany,  ducks  quacked  about  us 
and  were  shot  with  blunderbuss.  Yes,  and  they  were 
doubtless  roasted,  with  apple-sauce  upon  the  side. 
And  then  a  hundred  years  went  by,  and  the  breathless 
city  jumped  to  the  north  and  left  us  a  village  in  its 
midst. 

It  really  is  a  village.  The  grocer  gives  you  credit 
without  question.  Further  north,  where  fashion 
shops,  he  would  inspect  you  up  and  down  with  a  cruel 
eye  and  ask  a  reference.  He  would  linger  on  any 
patch  or  shiny  spot  to  trip  your  credit.  But  here  he 
wets  his  pencil  and  writes  down  the  order  without 
question.  His  friendly  cat  rubs  against  your  bundles 
on  the  counter.  The  shoemaker  inquires  how  your 
tapped  soles  are  wearing.  The  bootblack,  without 
lifting  his  eyes,  knows  you  by  the  knots  in  your  shoe- 
strings. I  fear  he  beats  his  wife,  for  he  has  a  great 
red  nose  which  even  prohibition  has  failed  to  cool. 
The  little  woman  at  the  corner  offers  you  the  Times 
before  you  speak.  The  cigar  man  tosses  you  a  pack- 
age of  Camels  as  you  enter.  Even  the  four-corners 
beyond  Berea — unknown,  remote,  quite  off  the  gen- 
eral travel — could  hardly  be  more  familiar  with  the 
preference  of  its  oldest  citizen.  We  need  only  a 
pump,  and  a  pig  and  chickens  in  the  street. 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS  19 

Our  gossip  is  smaller  than  is  found  in  cities.  If  we 
had  yards  and  gardens  we  would  talk  across  the  fence 
on  Monday  like  any  village,  with  clothes-pins  in  our 
mouths,  and  pass  our  ailments  down  the  street. 

But  we  are  crowded  close,  wall  to  wall.  I  see  my 
neighbor  cooking  across  the  street.  Each  morning 
she  jolts  her  dust-mop  out  of  the  window.  I  see 
shadows  on  a  curtain  as  a  family  sits  before  the  fire. 
A  novelist  is  down  below.  By  the  frenzy  of  his 
fingers  on  the  typewriter  it  must  be  a  tale  of  great 
excitement.  He  never  pauses  or  looks  at  the  ceiling 
for  a  plot.  At  night  he  reads  his  pages  to  his  patient 
wife,  when  they  together  have  cleared  away  the  dishes. 
In  another  window  a  girl  lies  abed  each  morning. 
Exactly  at  7.45,  after  ^  few  minutes  of  sleepy  stretch- 
ing, I  see  her  slim  legs  come  from  the  coverlet.  Once 
she  caught  my  eye.  She  stuck  out  her  tongue.  Your 
stockings,  my  dear,  hang  across  the  radiator. 

We  have  odd  characters,  too,  known  to  everybody, 
just  as  small  towns  have,  who,  in  country  circum- 
stance, would  whittle  on  the  bench  outside  the  village 
store.  The  father  of  a  famous  poet,  but  himself  un- 
known except  hereabouts,  has  his  chair  in  the  corner 
of  a  certain  restaurant,  and  he  offers  wisdom  and 
reminiscence  to  a  coterie.    He  is  our  Johnson  at  the 

Mitre.  Old  M ,  who  lives  in  the  Alley  in  what  was 

once  a  hayloft — now  a  studio, — is  known  from  Fourth 
to  Twelfth  Street  for  his  Indian  curry  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  older  poets.  It  is  his  pleasant  custom  to 
drop  in  on  his  friends  from  time  to  time  and  cook  their 


20  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

dinner.  He  tosses  you  an  ancient  sonnet  as  he  stirs 
the  pot,  or  he  beats  time  with  his  iron  spoon  to  a 
melody  of  the  Pathetique.  He  knows  Shakespeare  to 
a  comma,  and  discourses  so  agreeably  that  the  Madi- 
son Square  clock  fairly  races  up  to  midnight.  Every 
morning,  it  is  said — but  I  doubt  the  truth  of  this,  for 
a  gossiping  lady  told  me — every  morning  until  the 
general  drouth  set  in,  he  issued  from  the  Alley  for 
a  toddy  to  sustain  his  seventy  years.    Sometimes,  she 

says,  old  M went  without  tie  or  collar  on  these 

quick  excursions,  yet  with  the  manners  of  the  Empire 
and  a  sweeping  bow,  if  he  met  any  lady  of  liis 
acquaintance. 

A  famous  lecturer  in  a  fur  collar  sweeps  by  me 
often,  with  his  eyes  on  the  poetic  stars.  As  he  takes 
the  air  this  sunny  morning  he  thinks  of  new  paradoxes 
to  startle  the  ladies  at  his  matinee.  How  they  love  to 
be  shocked  by  his  wicked  speech !  He  is  such  a  daring, 
handsome  fellow — so  like  a  god  of  ancient  Greece! 

And  of  course  most  of  us  know  T ,  who  gives  a 

yearly  dinner  at  an  Assyrian  restaurant — sixty  cents 
a  plate,  with  a  near-beer  extra  from  a  saloon  across 
the  way.  Any  guest  may  bring  a  friend,  but  he  must 
give  ample  warning  in  order  that  the  table  may  be 
stretched. 

The  chief  poet  of  our  village  wears  a  corduroy  suit 
and  goes  without  his  hat,  even  in  winter.  If  a  comedy 
of  his  happens  to  be  playing  at  a  little  theatre,  he  him- 
self rings  a  bell  in  his  favorite  restaurant  and  makes 
the    announcement    in    true    Elizabethan    fashion. 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS  21 

"Know  ye,  one  and  all,  there  is  a  conceited  comedy 
this  night — "  His  hair  is  always  tousled.  But,  as  its 
confusion  continues  from  March  into  the  quieter 
months,  the  disarrangement  springs  not  so  much  from 
the  outer  tempest  as  from  the  poetic  storms  inside. 

Then  we  have  a  kind  of  Peter  Pan  grown  to  shiny 
middle  hf e,  who  makes  ukuleles  for  a  living.  On  any 
night  of  special  celebration  he  is  prevailed  upon  to 
mount  a  table  and  sing  one  of  his  own  songs  to  this 
accompaniment.  These  songs  tell  what  a  merry, 
wicked  crew  we  are.  He  sings  of  the  artists'  balls  that 
ape  the  Bohemia  of  Paris,  of  our  genius,  our  unre- 
straint, our  scorn  of  all  convention.  What  is  morality 
but  a  suit  to  be  discarded  when  it  is  old?  What  is  life, 
he  sings,  but  a  mad  jester  with  tinkling  bells?  Youth 
is  brief,  and  when  dead  we're  buried  deep.  So  let's 
romp  and  drink  and  kiss.  It  is  a  pagan  song  that  has 
lasted  through  the  centuries.  If  it  happens  that  any 
folk  are  down  from  the  uptown  hotels,  Peter  Pan 
consents  to  sell  a  ukulele  between  his  encores.  Here, 
my  dear  pilgrims,  is  an  entertainment  to  be  squeezed 
between  Ziegf eld's  and  the  Winter  Garden. 

You  are  welcome  at  all  of  our  restaurants — our 
Samovars,  the  Pig  and  Whistle,  the  Three  Steps 
Down  (a  crowded  room,  where  you  spill  your  soup  as 
you  carry  it  to  a  table,  but  a  cheap,  honest  place  in 
which  to  eat),  the  Green  Witch,  the  Simple  Simon. 
The  food  is  good  at  all  of  these  places.  Grope  your 
way  into  a  basement — ^wherever  one  of  our  fantastic 
signs  hangs  out — or  climb  broken  stairs  into  a  dusty 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


garret — over  a  contractor's  storage  of  old  lumber  and 
bath-tubs — over  the  litter  of  the  roofs — and  you  will 
find  artistic  folk  with  flowing  ties,  spreading  their 
elbows  at  bare  tables  with  unkept,  dripping  candles. 

Here  is  youth  that  is  blown  hither  from  distant 
villages — youth  that  was  misunderstood  at  home — 
youth  that  looks  from  its  poor  valley  to  the  heights 
and  follows  a  flame  across  the  darkness — youth  whose 
eyes  are  a  window  on  the  stars.  Here  also,  alas,  are 
slim  white  moths  about  a  candle.  And  here  wrinkled 
children  play  at  life  and  art. 

Here  are  radicals  who  plot  the  reformation  of  the 
world.  They  hope  it  may  come  by  peaceful  means, 
but  if  necessary  will  welcome  revolution  and  machine- 
guns.  They  demand  free  speech,  but  put  to  silence 
any  utterance  less  red  than  their  own. 

Here  are  seething  sonneteers,  playwrights  bulging 
with  rejected  manuscript,  young  women  with  bobbed 
hair  and  with  cigarettes  lolling  limply  at  their  mouths. 
For  a  cigarette,  I  have  observed,  that  hangs  loosely 
from  the  teeth  shows  an  artistic  temperament,  just  as 
in  business  circles  a  cigar  that  is  tilted  up  until  it 
warms  the  nose  marks  a  sharp  commercial  nature. 

But  business  counts  for  little  with  us.  Recently,  to 
make  a  purchase,  I  ventured  of  an  evening  into  one  of 
our  many  small  shops  of  fancy  wares.  Judge  my  em- 
barrassment to  see  that  the  salesman  was  entertain- 
ing a  young  lady  on  his  knee.  I  was  too  far  inside  to 
retreat.  Presently  the  salesman  shifted  the  lady  to 
his  other  knee  and,  brushing  a  lock  of  her  hair  off  his 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


nose,  asked  me  what  I  wanted.  But  I  was  unwilling 
to  disturb  his  hospitality.  I  begged  him  not  to  lay 
down  his  pleasant  burden,  but  rather  to  neglect  my 
presence.  He  thanked  me  for  my  courtesy,  and  made 
his  guest  comfortable  once  more  while  I  fumbled 
along  the  shelves.  By  good  luck  the  price  was  marked 
upon  my  purchase.  I  laid  down  the  exact  change  and 
tip-toed  out. 

The  peddlers  of  our  village,  our  street  musicians, 
our  apple  men,  belong  to  us.  They  may  wander  now 
and  then  to  the  outside  world  for  a  silver  tribute,  yet 
they  smile  at  us  on  their  return  as  at  their  truest 
friends.  Ice  creaks  up  the  street  in  a  little  cart  and 
trickles  at  the  cracks.  Rags  and  bottles  go  by  with  a 
familiar,  jangling  bell.  Scissors  grinders  have  a  bell, 
also,  with  a  flat,  tinny  sound,  like  a  cow  that  forever 
jerks  its  head  with  flies.  But  it  was  only  the  other  day 
that  two  fellows  went  by  selling  brooms.  These  were 
interlopers  from  a  noisier  district,  and  they  raised  up 
such  a  clamor  that  one  would  have  thought  that  the 
Armistice  had  been  signed  again.  The  clatter  was  so 
unusual — our  own  merchants  are  of  quieter  voice — 
that  a  dozen  of  us  thrust  our  heads  from  our  windows. 
Perhaps  another  German  government  had  fallen. 
The  novelist  below  me  put  out  his  shaggy  beard.  The 
girl  with  the  slim  legs  was  craned  out  of  the  sill  with 
excitement.  My  pretty  neighbor  below,  who  is  im- 
maculate when  I  meet  her  on  the  stairs,  was  in  her 
mob-cap. 

My  dear  pilgrim  from  the  West,  with  your  ample 


^^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

house  and  woodshed,  your  yard  with  its  croquet  set 
and  hammock  between  the  wash-poles,  you  have  no 
notion  how  we  are  crowded  on  the  island.  Laundry 
tubs  are  concealed  beneath  kitchen  tables.  Boxes  for 
clothes  and  linen  are  ambushed  under  our  beds.  Any 
burglar  hiding  there  would  have  to  snuggle  among  the 
moth  balls.  Sitting-room  tables  are  swept  of  books 
for  dinner.  Bookcases  are  desks.  Desks  are  beds. 
Beds  are  couches.  Couches  are — bless  you!  all  the 
furniture  is  at  masquerade.  Kitchen  chairs  turn  up- 
side down  and  become  step-ladders.  If  anything  does 
not  serve  at  least  two  uses  it  is  a  slacker.  Beds  tumble 
out  of  closets.  Fire  escapes  are  nurseries.  A  patch 
of  roof  is  a  pleasant  garden.  A  bathroom  becomes  a 
kitchen,  with  a  lid  upon  the  tub  for  groceries,  and  the 
milk  cooling  below  with  the  cold  faucet  drawn. 

A  room's  use  changes  with  the  clock.  That  girl 
who  lives  opposite,  when  she  is  dressed  in  the  morn- 
ing, puts  a  Bagdad  stripe  across  her  couch.  She 
punches  a  row  of  colored  pillows  against  the  wall. 
Her  bedroom  is  now  ready  for  callers.  It  was  only 
the  other  day  that  I  read  of  a  new  invention  by  which 
a  single  room  becomes  four  rooms  simply  by  pressing 
a  button.  This  is  the  manner  of  the  magic.  In  a 
corner,  let  us  say,  of  a  rectangular  room  there  is  set 
into  the  floor  a  turntable  ten  feet  across.  On  this  are 
built  four  compartments,  shaped  like  pieces  of  pie.  In 
one  of  these  is  placed  a  bath-tub  and  stand,  in  another 
a  folding-bed  and  wardrobe,  in  a  third  is  a  kitchen 
range  and  cupboard,  and  in  the  fourth  a  bookcase  and 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS  %5 

piano.  Must  I  explain  the  mystery?  On  rising  you 
fold  away  your  bed  and  spin  the  circle  for  your  tub. 
And  then  in  turn  your  stove  appears.  At  last,  when 
you  have  whirled  your  dishes  to  retirement,  the  piano 
comes  in  sight.  It  is  as  easy  as  spinning  the  caster 
for  the  oil  and  vinegar.  A  whirling  Susan  on  the 
supper  table  is  not  more  nimble.  With  this  device  it 
is  estimated  that  the  population  of  our  snug  island 
can  be  quadruplicated,  and  that  landlords  can  double 
their  rents  with  untroubled  conscience.  Or,  by  swing- 
ing a  fifth  piece  of  pie  out  of  the  window,  a  sleeping- 
porch  could  be  added.  When  the  morning  alarm  goes 
off  you  have  only  to  spin  the  disk  and  dress  in  com- 
fort beside  the  radiator.  Or  you  could — but  possi- 
bilities are  countless. 

Tom  Paine  died  on  Grove  Street.  O.  Henry  hved 
on  Irving  Place  and  ate  at  Allaire's  on  Third  Avenue. 
The  Aquarium  was  once  a  fort  on  an  island  in  the 
river.  Later  Lafayette  was  welcomed  there.  And 
Jenny  Lind  sang  there.  John  Masefield  swept  out 
a  saloon,  it's  said,  on  Sixth  Avenue  near  the  Jefferson 
Market,  and,  for  all  I  know,  his  very  broom  may  be 
still  standing  behind  the  door.  The  Bowery  was  once 
a  post-road  up  toward  Boston.  In  the  stream  that 
flowed  down  Maiden  Lane,  Dutch  girls  did  the  family 
washing.  In  William  Street,  not  long  ago,  they  were 
tearing  down  the  house  in  which  Alexander  Hamilton 
lived.    These  are  facts  at  random. 

But  Captain  Kidd  lived  at  119  Pearl  Street.  Dear 
me,  I  had  thought  that  he  was  a  creature  of  a  nursery 


m  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

book — one  of  the  pirates  whom  Sinbad  fought.  And 
here  on  Pearl  Street,  in  our  own  city,  he  was  arrested 
and  taken  to  hang  in  chains  in  London.  A  restaurant 
now  stands  at  119.  A  bucket  of  oyster  shells  is  at 
the  door,  and,  inside,  a  clatter  of  hungry  spoons. 

But  the  crowd  thickens  on  these  narrow  streets. 
Work  is  done  for  the  day  and  tired  folk  hurry  home. 
Crowds  flow  into  the  subway  entrances.  The  streets 
are  flushed,  as  it  were,  with  people,  and  the  flood 
drains  to  the  rushing  sewers.  Now  the  lights  go  out 
one  by  one.  The  great  buildings,  that  glistened  but 
a  moment  since  at  every  window,  are  now  dark  cliffs 
above  us  in  the  wintry  mist. 

It  is  time,  dear  pilgrim,  to  seek  your  hotel  or 
favorite  cabaret. 

The  Wrigley  triplets  once  more  correct  by  exercise 
their  sluggish  livers.  The  kitten  rolls  its  ball  of  fiery 
silk.  Times  Square  flashes  with  entertainment.  It 
stretches  its  glittering  web  across  the  night. 

Dear  pilgrim,  a  last  important  word!  Put  money 
in  thy  purse ! 


I  Plan  a  Vacation. 

IT  is  my  hope,  when  the  snow  is  ofif  the  ground 
and  the  ocean  has  been  tamed  by  breezes  from 
the  south,  to  cross  to  England.  Already  I  fancy 
myself  seated  in  the  pleasant  office  of  the  steamship 
agent,  listening  to  his  gossip  of  rates  and  sailings, 
bending  over  his  colored  charts,  weighing  the  merit 
of  cabins.  Here  is  one  amidships  in  a  location  of 
greatest  ease  upon  the  stomach.  Here  is  one  with  a 
forward  port  that  will  catch  the  sharp  and  wholesome 
wind  from  the  Atlantic.  I  trace  the  giant  funnels 
from  deck  to  deck.  My  finger  follows  delightedly 
the  confusing  passages.  I  smell  the  rubber  on  the 
landings  and  the  salty  rugs.  From  on  top  I  hear  the 
wind  in  the  cordage.  I  view  the  moon,  and  I  see  the 
mast  swinging  among  the  stars. 

Then,  also,  at  the  agent's,  for  my  pleasure,  there  is 
a  picture  of  a  ship  cut  down  the  middle,  showing  its 
inner  furnishing  and  the  hum  of  life  on  its  many 
decks.  I  study  its  flights  of  steps,  its  strange  tubes 
and  vents  and  boilers.  Munchausen's  horse,  when  its 
rearward  end  was  snapped  off  by  the  falling  gate  (the 
faithful  animal,  you  may  recall,  galloped  for  a  mile 
upon  its  forward  legs  alone  before  the  misadventure 
was  discovered) — Munchausen's  horse,  I  insist, — the 
unbroken,  forward  half, —  did  not  display  so  frankly 
its  confusing  pipes  and  coils.    Then  there  is  another 


28  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

ship  which,  by  a  monstrous  effort  of  the  printer,  is  laid 
in  Broadway,  where  its  stacks  out-top  Trinity.  I  pace 
its  mighty  length  on  the  street  before  my  house,  and 
my  eye  chmbs  our  tallest  tree  for  a  just  comparison. 

It  is  my  hope  to  find  a  man  of  like  ambition  and 
endurance  as  myself  and  to  walk  through  England. 
He  must  be  able,  if  necessary,  to  keep  to  the  road  for 
twenty-five  miles  a  day,  or,  if  the  inn  runs  before  us 
in  the  dark,  to  stretch  to  thirty.  But  he  should  be  a 
creature,  also,  who  is  content  to  doze  in  meditation 
beneath  a  hedge,  heedless  whether  the  sun,  in  faster 
boots,  puts  into  lodging  first.  Careless  of  the  hour, 
he  may  remark  in  my  sleepy  ear  "how  the  shadows 
lengthen  as  the  sun  declines." 

He  must  be  able  to  jest  when  his  feet  are  tired.  His 
drooping  grunt  must  be  spiced  with  humor.  When 
stiffness  cracks  him  in  the  morning,  he  can  the  better 
play  the  clown.  He  will  not  grumble  at  his  bed  or 
poke  too  shrewdly  at  his  food.  Neither  will  he  talk 
of  graves  and  rheimiatism  when  a  rainstorm  finds  us 
unprepared.  If  he  snuffle  at  the  nose,  he  must  snuffle 
cheerfully  and  with  hope.  Wit,  with  its  unexpected 
turns,  is  to  be  desired ;  but  a  pleasant  and  even  humor 
is  a  better  comrade  on  a  dusty  road.  It  endures 
blisters  and  an  empty  stomach.  A  pack  rests  more 
lightly  on  its  weary  shoulders.  If  he  sing,  he  should 
know  a  round  of  tunes  and  not  wear  a  single  melody 
to  tatters.  The  merriest  lilt  grows  dull  and  lame  when 
it  travels  all  the  day.  But  although  I  wish  my  com- 
panion to  be  of  a  cheerful  temper,  he  need  not  pipe  or 


I  PLAN  A  VACATION  29 


dance  until  the  mists  have  left  the  hills.  Does  not  the 
shining  sun  itself  rise  slowly  to  its  noonday  glory?  A 
companion  must  give  me  leave  to  enjoy  in  silence  my 
sullen  breakfast. 

A  talent  for  sketching  shall  be  welcome.  Let  him 
produce  his  pencils  and  his  tablet  at  a  pointed  arch  or 
muUioned  window,  or  catch  us  in  absurd  posture  as 
we  travel.  If  one  tumbles  in  a  ditch,  it  is  but  decency 
to  hold  the  pose  until  the  picture's  made. 

But,  chiefly,  a  companion  should  be  quick  with  a 
smile  and  nod,  apt  for  conversation  along  the  road. 
Neither  beard  nor  ringlet  must  snub  his  agreeable 
advance.  Such  a  fellow  stirs  up  a  mixed  acquaintance 
between  town  and  town,  to  point  the  shortest  way — a 
bit  of  modest  gingham  mixing  a  pudding  at  a  pantry 
window,  age  hobbling  to  the  gate  on  its  friendly 
crutch,  to  show  how  a  better  path  climbs  across  the 
hills.  Or  in  a  taproom  he  buys  a  round  of  ale  and 
becomes  a  crony  of  the  place.  He  enlists  a  dozen 
friends  to  sniff  outdoors  at  bedtime,  with  conflicting 
prophecy  of  a  shifting  wind  and  the  chance  of  rain. 

A  companion  should  be  alert  for  small  adventure. 
He  need  not,  therefore,  to  prove  himself,  run  to 
grapple  with  an  angry  dog.  Rather,  let  him  soothe 
the  snarling  creature!  Let  him  hold  the  beast  in 
parley  while  I  go  on  to  safety  with  unsoiled  dignity! 
Only  when  arbitration  and  soft  terms  fail  shall  he 
offer  a  haunch  of  his  own  fair  flesh.  Generously  he 
must  boost  me  up  a  tree,  before  he  seeks  safety  for 
himself. 


30  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

But  many  a  trivial  mishap,  if  followed  with  a 
willing  heart,  leads  to  comedy  and  is  a  jest  thereafter. 
I  know  a  man  who,  merely  by  following  an  inquisitive 
nose  through  a  doorway  marked  "No  Admittance," 
became  comrade  to  a  company  of  traveling  actors. 
The  play  was  Uncle  Toin's  Cabin,  and  they  were  at 
rehearsal.  Presently,  at  a  changing  of  the  scene,  my 
friend  boasted  to  Little  Eva,  as  they  sat  together  on 
a  pile  of  waves,  that  he  performed  upon  the  tuba.  It 
seems  that  she  had  previously  mounted  into  heaven  in 
the  final  picture  without  any  welcoming  trumpet  of 
the  angels.  That  night,  by  her  persuasion,  my  friend 
sat  in  the  upper  wings  and  dispensed  flutings  of  great 
joy  as  she  ascended  to  her  rest. 

Three  other  men  of  my  acquaintance  were  caught 
once,  between  towns,  on  a  walking  trip  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  fell  by  chance  into  a  kind  of  sanitarium  for 
convalescent  consumptives.  At  first  it  seemed  a 
gloomy  prospect.  But,  learning  that  there  was  a 
movie  in  a  near-by  village,  they  secured  two  jitneys 
and  gave  a  party  for  the  inmates.  In  the  church 
parlor,  when  the  show  was  done,  they  ate  ice-cream 
and  layer-cake.  Two  of  the  men  were  fat,  but  the 
third,  a  slight  and  handsome  fellow — I  write  on  sus- 
picion only — so  won  a  pretty  patient  at  the  feast,  that, 
on  the  homeward  ride — they  were  rattling  in  the 
tonneau — she  graciously  permitted  him  to  steady  her 
at  the  bumps  and  sudden  turns. 

Nor  was  this  the  end.  As  it  still  lacked  an  hour  of 
midnight  the  general  sanitarium  declared  a  Roman 


I  PLAN  A  VACATION  31 

holiday.  The  slight  fellow,  on  a  challenge,  did  a 
hand-stand,  with  his  feet  waving  against  the  wall, 
while  his  knife  and  keys  and  money  dropped  from 
his  pockets.  The  pretty  patient  read  aloud  some 
verses  of  her  own  upon  the  spring.  She  brought 
down  her  water-colors,  and  laying  a  charcoal  portrait 
off  the  piano,  she  ranged  her  lovely  wares  upon  the 
top.  The  fattest  of  my  friends,  also,  eager  to  do  his 
part,  stretched  himself,  heels  and  head,  between  two 
chairs.  But,  when  another  chair  was  tossed  on  his 
unsupported  middle,  he  fell  with  a  boom  upon  the 
carpet.  Then  the  old  doctor  brought  out  wine  and 
Bohemian  glasses  with  long  stems  and,  as  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  the  company  pledged  one  another's 
health,  with  hopes  for.  a  reunion.  They  lighted  their 
candles  on  the  landing,  and  so  to  bed. 

I  know  a  man,  also,  who  once  met  a  sword- 
swallower  at  a  county  fair.  A  volunteer  was  needed 
for  his  trick — someone  to  hold  the  scarlet  cushion  with 
its  dangerous  knives — and  zealous  friends  pushed  him 
from  his  seat  and  toward  the  stage.  Afterwards  he 
met  the  Caucasian  Beauties  and,  despite  his  timidity, 
they  dined  together  with  great  merriment. 

Then  there  is  a  kind  of  humorous  philosophy  to  be 
desired  on  an  excursion.  It  smokes  a  contented  pipe 
to  the  tune  of  every  rivulet.  It  rests  a  peaceful 
stomach  on  the  rail  of  every  bridge,  and  it  observes 
the  floating  leaves,  like  golden  caravels  upon  the 
stream.  It  interprets  a  trivial  event.  It  is  both 
serious  and  absurd.    It  sits  on  a  fence  to  moralize  on 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


the  life  of  cows  and  flings  in  Plato  on  the  soul.  It 
plays  catch  and  toss  with  life  and  death  and  the  world 
beyond.  And  it  sees  significance  in  common  things. 
A  farmer's  cart  is  a  tumbril  of  the  Revolution.  A 
crowing  rooster  is  Chanticleer.  It  is  the  very  cock 
that  proclaimed  to  Hamlet  that  the  dawn  was  nigh. 
When  a  cloud  rises  up,  such  a  philosopher  discourses 
of  the  flood.  He  counts  up  the  forty  rainy  days  and 
names  the  present  rascals  to  be  drowned — profiteers 
in  food,  plumbers  and  all  laundrymen. 

A  stable  lantern,  swinging  in  the  dark,  rouses  up  a 
race  of  giants — 

I  think  it  was  some  such  fantastic  quality  of  thought 
that  Horace  Walpole  had  in  mind  when  he  com- 
mended the  Three  Princes  of  Serendip.  Their  High- 
nesses, it  seems,  "were  always  making  discoveries,  by 
accident  and  sagacity,  of  things  which  they  were  not  in 
quest  of:  for  instance,"  he  writes,  "one  of  them  dis- 
covered that  a  mule  blind  of  the  right  eye  had 
traveled  the  same  road  lately,  because  the  grass  was 
eaten  on  the  left  side."  At  first,  I  confess,  this  em- 
ployment seems  a  waste  of  time.  Sherlock  Holmes 
did  better  when  he  pronounced,  on  finding  a  neglected 
whisp  of  beard,  that  Doctor  Watson's  shaving  mirror 
had  been  shifted  to  an  opposite  window.  But  doubt- 
less the  Princes  put  their  deduction  to  higher  use,  and 
met  the  countryside  and  village  with  shrewd  and  vivid 
observation. 

Don  Quixote  had  this  same  quality,  but  with  more 
than  a  touch  of  madness.     Did  he  not  build  up  the 


I  PLAN  A  VACATION 


Lady  Tolosa  out  of  a  common  creature  at  an  inn? 
He  sought  knighthood  at  the  hands  of  its  stupid 
keeper  and  watched  his  armor  all  night  by  the  foolish 
moon.  He  tilted  against  a  windmill.  I  cannot  whole- 
heartedly commend  the  Don,  but,  for  an  afternoon, 
certainly,  I  would  prefer  his  company  between  town 
and  town  to  that  of  any  man  who  carries  his  clanking 
factory  on  his  back. 

But,  also,  I  wish  a  companion  of  my  travels  to  be 
for  the  first  time  in  England,  in  order  that  I  may  have 
a  fresh  audience  for  my  superior  knowledge.  In  the 
cathedral  towns  I  wish  to  wave  an  instructive  finger 
in  crypt  and  aisle.  Here  is  a  bit  of  early  glass.  Here 
is  a  wall  that  was  plastered  against  the  plague  when 
the  Black  Prince  was  still  alive.  I  shall  gossip  of 
scholars  in  cord  and  gown,  working  at  their  rubric  in 
sunny  cloisters.  Or  if  I  choose  to  talk  of  kings  and 
forgotten  battles,  I  wish  a  companion  ignorant  but 
eager  for  my  boasting. 

It  was  only  last  night  that  several  of  us  discussed 
vacations.  Wyoming  was  the  favorite — a  ranch,  with 
a  month  on  horseback  in  the  mountains,  hemlock 
brouse  for  a  bed,  morning  at  five  and  wood  to  chop. 
But  a  horse  is  to  me  a  troubled  creature.  He  stands 
to  too  great  a  height.  His  eye  glows  with  exultant 
deviltry  as  he  turns  and  views  my  imperfection.  His 
front  teeth  seem  made  for  scraping  along  my  arm. 
I  dread  any  fly  or  bee  lest  it  sting  him  to  emotion. 
I  am  point  to  point  in  agreement  with  the  psalmist: 
"An  horse  is  a  vain  thing  for  safety."    If  I  must  ride. 


3J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

I  demand  a  tired  horse,  who  has  cropped  his  wild  oats 
and  has  come  to  a  sHppered  state.  Are  we  not  told 
that  the  horse  in  the  crustaceous  age — I  select  a  large 
word  at  random — was  built  no  bigger  than  a  dog? 
Let  this  snug  and  peerless  ancestor  be  saddled  and  I 
shall  buy  a  ticket  for  the  West. 

But  I  do  not  at  this  time  desire  to  beard  the  wilder- 
ness. There  is  a  camp  of  Indians  near  the  ranch.  I 
can  smell  them  these  thousand  miles  away.  Their 
beads  and  greasy  blankets  hold  no  charm.  Smoky 
bacon,  indeed,  I  like.  I  can  lie  pleasurably  at  the  flap 
of  the  tent  with  sleepy  eyes  upon  the  stars.  I  can 
even  plunge  in  a  chilly  pool  at  dawn.  But  the  Indians 
and  horses  that  infest  Wyoming  do  not  arouse  my 
present  interest. 

I  am  for  England,  therefore — for  its  winding  roads, 
its  villages  that  nest  along  the  streams,  its  peaked 
bridges  with  salmon  jumping  at  the  weir,  its  thatched 
cottages  and  flowering  hedges. 

"The  chaflinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now!" 

I  wish  to  see  reapers  at  work  in  Surrey  fields,  to 
stride  over  the  windy  top  of  Devon,  to  cross  Wiltshire 
when  wind  and  rain  and  mist  have  brought  the  Druids 
back  to  Stonehenge.  At  a  crossroad  Stratford  is  ten 
miles  off.  Raglan's  ancient  towers  peep  from  a 
wooded  hill.  Tintern  or  Glastonbury  can  be  gained 
by  night.  Are  not  these  names  sweet  upon  the 
tongue  ?    And  I  wish  a  black- timbered  inn  in  which  to 


/  PLAN  A  VACATION 


35 


end  the  day — ^with  polished  brasses  in  the  tap  and  the 
smell  of  the  musty  centuries  upon  the  stairs. 

At  the  window  of  our  room  the  Cathedral  spire 
rises  above  the  roofs.  There  is  no  trolley-ear  or 
creaking  of  any  wheel,  and  on  the  pavement  we  hear 
only  the  fall  of  feet  in  endless  pattern.  Day  weaves 
a  hurrying  mesh,  but  this  is  the  quiet  fabric  of  the 
night. 

I  wish  to  walk  from  London  to  Inverness,  to  climb 


36  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  ghostly  ramparts  of  Macbeth's  castle,  to  hear  the 
shrill  cry  of  Duncan's  murder  in  the  night,  to  watch 
for  witches  on  the  stormy  moor.  I  shall  sit  on  the 
bench  where  Johnson  sat  with  Boswell  on  his  journey 
to  the  Hebrides.  I  shall  see  the  wizard  of  the  North, 
lame  of  foot,  walking  in  the  shade  of  ruined  Dry- 
burgh.  With  drunken  Tam,  I  shall  behold  in  Allo- 
way  Kirk  warlocks  in  a  dance.  From  the  gloomy 
house  of  Shaws  and  its  broken  tower  David  Balfour 
runs  in  flight  across  the  heather.  Culloden  echoes  with 
the  defeat  of  an  outlaw  prince.  The  stairs  of  Holy- 
rood  drip  with  Rizzio's  blood.  But  also,  I  wish  to  fol- 
low the  Devon  lanes,  to  rest  in  villages  on  the  coast  at 
the  fall  of  day  when  fishermen  wind  their  nets,  to 
dream  of  Arthur  and  his  court  on  the  rocks  beyond 
Tintagel.  Merlin  lies  in  Wales  with  his  dusty  gar- 
ments pulled  about  him,  and  his  magic  sleeps.  But 
there  is  wind  tonight  in  the  noisy  caverns  of  the  sea, 
and  Spanish  pirates  dripping  with  the  slime  of  a 
watery  grave,  bury  their  treasure  when  the  fog  lies 
thick. 

Thousands  of  years  have  peopled  these  English 
villages.  Their  pavements  echo  with  the  tread  of 
kings  and  poets.  Here  is  a  sunny  bower  for  lovers 
when  the  world  was  young.  Bishops  of  the  Roman 
church — Saint  Thomas  himself  in  his  robes  pontifical 
has  walked  through  these  broken  cloisters.  Here  is 
the  altar  where  he  knelt  at  prayer  when  his  assassins 
came.  From  that  tower  Mary  of  Scotland  looked 
vainly  for  assistance  to  gallop  from  the  north. 


I  PLAN  A   VACATION  37 

Here  stretches  the  Pilgrims'  Way  across  the  downs 
of  Surrey — worn  and  scratched  by  pious  feet.  From 
the  west  they  came  to  Canterbury.  The  wind  stirs 
the  far-off  traffic,  and  the  mist  covers  the  hills  as  with 
an  ancient  memory. 

How  many  thirsty  elbows  have  rubbed  this  table  in 
the  forgotten  years!  How  many  feasts  have  come 
steaming  from  the  kitchen  when  the  London  coach 
was  in!  That  pewter  cup,  maybe,  offered  its  eager 
pledge  when  the  news  of  Agincourt  was  blown  from 
France.  Up  that  stairway  Tom  Jones  reeled  with 
sparkling  canary  at  his  belt.  These  cobbles  clacked 
in  the  Pretender's  flight.  Here  is  the  chair  where 
Falstaff  sat  when  he  cried  out  that  the  sack  was 
spoiled  with  villainous  lime.  That  signboard  creaked 
in  the  tempest  that  shattered  the  Armada. 

My  fancy  mingles  in  the  past.  It  hears  in  the  inn- 
yard  the  chattering  pilgrims  starting  on  their  journey. 
Here  is  the  Pardoner  jesting  with  the  merry  Wife  of 
Bath,  with  his  finger  on  his  lips  to  keep  their  scandal 
private.  It  sees  Dick  Turpin  at  the  crossroads  with 
loaded  pistols  in  his  boots.  There  is  mist  tonight  on 
Bagshot  Heath,  and  men  in  Kendal  green  are  out. 
And  fancy  rebuilds  a  ruined  castle,  and  lights  the  hos- 
pitable fires  beneath  its  mighty  caldrons.  It  hangs 
tapestry  on  its  empty  walls  and,  like  a  sounding 
trumpet,  it  summons  up  a  gaudy  company  in  ruff  and 
velvet  to  tread  the  forgotten  measures  of  the  past. 

Let  Wyoming  go  and  hang  itself  in  its  muddy 
riding-boots  and  khaki  shirt !    Let  its  tall  horses  leap 


38  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

upward  and  click  their  heels  upon  the  moon!  I  am 
for  England. 

It  is  my  preference  to  land  at  Plymouth,  and  our 
anchor — if  the  captain  is  compliant — will  be  dropped 
at  night,  in  order  that  the  Devon  hills,  as  the  thrifty 
stars  are  dimmed,  may  appear  first  through  the  mists 
of  dawn.  If  my  memory  serves,  there  is  a  country 
church  with  stone-embattled  tower  on  the  sunmiit 
above  the  town,  and  in  the  early  twilight  all  the  roads 
that  climb  the  hills  lead  away  to  promised  kingdoms. 
Drake,  I  assert,  still  bowls  nightly  on  the  quay  at 
Plymouth,  with  pins  that  rattle  in  the  windy  season, 
but  the  game  is  done  when  the  light  appears. 

We  clatter  up  to  London.  Paddington  station  or 
Waterloo,  I  care  not.  But  for  arrival  a  rainy  night  is 
best,  when  the  pavements  glisten  and  the  mad  taxis 
are  rushing  to  the  theatres.  And  then,  for  a  week,  by 
way  of  practice  and  to  test  our  boots,  we  shall  trudge 
the  streets  of  London — the  Strand  and  the  Embank- 
ment. And  certainly  we  shall  explore  the  Temple 
and  find  the  sites  of  Blackf  riars  and  the  Globe.  Here, 
beyond  this  present  brewery,  was  the  bear-pit.  Tarl- 
ton's  jests  still  sound  upon  the  bank.  A  wherry,  once, 
on  this  busy  river,  conveyed  Sir  Roger  up  to  Vaux- 
hall.  Perhaps,  here,  on  the  homeward  trip,  he  was 
rejected  by  the  widow.  The  dear  fellow,  it  is  re- 
corded, out  of  sentiment  merely,  kept  his  clothes  un- 
changed in  the  fashion  of  this  season  of  his  disappoint- 
ment. Here,  also,  was  the  old  bridge  across  the  Fleet. 
Here  was  Drury  Lane  where  Garrick  acted.    Tender 


/  PLAN  A  VACATION  39 

hearts,  they  say,  in  pit  and  stall,  fluttered  to  his 
Romeo,  and  sighed  their  souls  across  the  candles.  On 
this  muddy  curb  link-boys  waited  when  the  fog  was 
thick.    Here  the  footmen  bawled  for  chairs. 

But  there  are  bookshops  still  in  Charing  Cross 
Road.  And,  for  frivolous  moments,  haberdashery  is 
offered  in  Bond  Street  and  vaudeville  in  Leicester 
Square. 

And  then  on  a  supreme  morning  we  pack  our  ruck- 
sacks. 

It  was  a  grievous  oversight  that  Christian  failed  to 
tell  us  what  clothing  he  carried  in  his  pack.  We  know 
it  was  a  heavy  burden,  for  it  dragged  him  in  the  mire. 
But  did  he  carry  slippers  to  ease  his  feet  at  night? 
And  what  did  the  Pardoner  put  inside  his  wallet? 
Surely  the  Wife  of  Bath  was  supplied  with  a  powder- 
puff  and  a  fresh  taffeta  to  wear  at  the  journey's  end. 
I  could,  indeed,  spare  Christian  one  or  two  of  his 
encounters  for  knowledge  of  his  wardrobe.  These 
homely  details  are  of  interest.  The  mad  Knight  of 
La  Mancha,  we  are  told,  mortgaged  his  house  and  laid 
out  a  pretty  sum  on  extra  shirts.  Stevenson,  also, 
tells  us  the  exact  gear  that  he  loaded  on  his  donkey, 
but  what  did  Marco  Polo  carry?  And  Munchausen 
and  the  Wandering  Jew  ?  I  have  skimmed  their  pages 
vainly  for  a  hint. 

For  myself,  I  shall  take  an  extra  suit  of  under- 
wear and  another  flannel  shirt,  a  pair  of  stockings,  a 
rubber  cape  of  lightest  weight  that  falls  below  the 
knees,  slippers,  a  shaving-kit  and  brushes.     I  shall 


UO  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

wash  my  linen  at  night  and  hang  it  from  my  window, 
where  it  shall  wave  like  an  admiral's  flag  to  show  that 
I  sleep  upon  the  premises.  I  shall  replace  it  as  it 
wears.  And  I  shall  take  a  book,  not  to  read  but  to 
have  ready  on  the  chance.  I  once  carried  the  Book 
of  Psalms,  but  it  was  Nick  Carter  I  read,  which  I 
bought  in  a  tavern  parlor,  fifteen  pages  missing,  from 
a  fat  lady  who  served  me  beer. 

We  run  to  the  window  for  a  twentieth  time.  It  has 
rained  all  night,  but  the  man  in  the  lift  was  hopeful 
when  we  came  up  from  breakfast.  We  believe  him;  as 
if  he  sat  on  a  tower  with  a  spy-glass  on  the  clouds. 
We  cherish  his  tip  as  if  it  came  from  ^olus  himself, 
holding  the  winds  in  leash. 

And  now  a  streak  of  yellowish  sky — London's  sub- 
stitute for  blue — shows  in  the  west. 

We  pay  our  bill.  We  scatter  the  usual  silver. 
Several  senators  in  uniform  bow  us  down  the  steps. 
We  hale  a  bus  in  Trafalgar  Square.  We  climb  to  the 
top — to  the  front  seat  with  full  prospect.  The  Hay- 
market.  Sandwich  men  with  weary  step  announce  a 
vaudeville.  We  snap  our  fingers  at  so  stale  an  enter- 
tainment. There  are  flower-girls  in  Piccadilly  Circus. 
Regent  Street.  We  pass  the  Marble  Arch,  near 
which  cut-throats  were  once  hanged  on  the  three- 
legged  mare  of  Tyburn.  Hammersmith.  Brentford. 
The  bus  stops.  It  is  the  end  of  the  route.  We  have 
ridden  out  our  sixpence.  We  climb  down.  We 
adjust  our  packs  and  shoe-strings.  The  road  to  the 
western  country  beckons. 


/  PLAN  A  VACATION  U 

My  dear  sir,  perhaps  you  yourself  have  planned  for 
a  landaulet  this  summer  and  an  English  trip.  You 
have  laid  out  two  swift  weeks  to  make  the  breathless 
round.  You  journey  from  London  to  Bristol  in  a 
day.  Another  day,  and  you  will  climb  out,  stiff  of 
leg,  among  the  northern  lakes.  If  then,  as  you  loll 
among  the  cushions,  lapped  in  luxury,  pink  and  soft — 
if  then,  you  see  two  men  with  sticks  in  hand  and  packs 
on  shoulder,  know  them  for  ourselves.  We  are  sing- 
ing on  the  road  to  Windsor — ^to  Salisbury,  to  Stone- 
henge,  to  the  hills  of  Dorset,  to  Lyme-Regis,  to 
Exeter  and  the  Devon  moors. 

It  was  a  shepherd  who  came  with  a  song  to  the 
mountain-top.  "The  sun  shone,  the  bees  swept  past 
me  singing;  and  I  too  sang,  shouted.  World,  world, 
I  am  coming!" 


At  a  Toy-Shop  Window. 

IN  this  Christmas  season,  when  snowflakes  fill  the 
air  and  twiHght  is  the  pleasant  thief  of  day,  I 
sometimes  pause  at  the  window  of  a  toy-shop  to 
see  what  manner  of  toys  are  offered  to  the  children. 
It  is  only  five  o'clock  and  yet  the  sky  is  dark.  The 
night  has  come  to  town  to  do  its  shopping  before  the 
stores  are  shut.    The  wind  has  Christmas  errands. 

And  there  is  a  throng  of  other  shoppers.  Fathers 
of  families  drip  with  packages  and  puff  after  street 
cars.  Fat  ladies — Now  then,  all  together! — are 
hoisted  up.  Old  ladies  are  caught  in  revolving  doors. 
And  the  relatives  of  Santa  Claus — surely  no  nearer 
than  nephews  ( anaemic  fellows  in  faded  red  coats  and 
cotton  beards) — pound  their  kettles  for  an  offering 
toward  a  Christmas  dinner  for  the  poor. 


AT  A  TOY-SHOP  WINDOW  43 

But,  also,  little  children  flatten  their  noses  on  the 
window  of  the  toy-shop.  They  point  their  thumbs 
through  their  woolly  mittens  in  a  sharp  rivalry  of 
choice.  Their  unspent  nickels  itch  for  large  invest- 
ment. Extravagant  dimes  bounce  around  their 
pockets.  But  their  ears  are  cold,  and  they  jiggle  on 
one  leg  against  a  frosty  toe. 

Here  in  the  toy-shop  is  a  tin  motor-car.  Here  is  a 
railroad  train,  with  tracks  and  curves  and  switches,  a 
pasteboard  mountain  and  a  tunnel.  Here  is  a  steam- 
boat. With  a  turning  of  a  key  it  starts  for  Honolulu 
behind  the  sofa.  The  stormy  Straits  of  Madagascar 
lie  along  the  narrow  hall.  Here  in  the  window,  also, 
are  beams  and  girders  for  a  tower.  Not  since  the  days 
of  Babel  has  such  a  vast  supply  been  gathered.  And 
there  are  battleships  and  swift  destroyers  and  guns 
and  armoured  tanks.  The  nursery  becomes  a  danger- 
ous ocean,  with  submarines  beneath  the  stairs:  or  it  is 
the  plain  of  Flanders  and  the  great  war  echoes  across 
the  hearth.  Chateau-Thierry  is  a  pattern  in  the  rug 
and  the  andirons  are  the  towers  of  threatened  Paris. 

But  on  this  Christmas  night,  as  I  stand  before  the 
toy-shop  in  the  whirling  storm,  the  wind  brings  me 
the  laughter  of  far-off  children.  Time  draws  back  its 
sober  curtain.  The  snow  of  thirty  winters  is  piled  in 
my  darkened  memory,  but  I  hear  shrill  voices  across 
the  night. 

Once  upon  a  time — in  the  days  when  noses  and 
tables  were  almost  on  a  level,  and  manhood  had 
wavered  from  kilts  to  pants  buttoning  at  the  side — 


U  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

once  there  was  a  great  chest  which  was  lodged  in  a 
closet  behind  a  sitting-room.  It  was  from  this  closet 
that  the  shadows  came  at  night,  although  at  noon 
there  was  plainly  a  row  of  hooks  with  comfortable 
winter  garments.  And  there  were  drawers  and 
shelves  to  the  ceiling  where  linen  was  kept,  and  a  cup- 
board for  cough-syrup  and  oily  lotions  for  chapped 
hands.  A  fragrant  paste,  also,  was  spread  on  the  tip 
of  the  little  finger,  which,  when  wiggled  inside  the 
nostril  and  inhaled,  was  good  for  wet  feet  and  snuffles. 
Twice  a  year  these  bottles  were  smelled  all  round  and 
half  of  them  discarded.  It  was  the  ragman  who 
bought  them,  a  penny  to  the  bottle.  He  coveted 
chiefly,  however,  lead  and  iron,  and  he  thrilled  to  old 
piping  as  another  man  thrills  to  Brahms.  He  was  a 
sly  fellow  and,  unless  Annie  looked  sharp,  he  put  his 
knee  against  the  scale. 

But  at  the  rear  of  the  closet,  beyond  the  lamplight, 
there  was  a  chest  where  playing-blocks  were  kept. 
There  v/ere  a  dozen  broken  sets  of  various  shapes  and 
sizes — the  deposit  and  remnant  of  many  years. 

These  blocks  had  once  been  covered  with  letters  and 
pictures.  They  had  conspired  to  teach  us.  C  had 
stood  for  cat.  D  announced  a  dog.  Learning  had 
put  on,  as  it  were,  a  sugar  coat  for  pleasant  swallow- 
ing. The  arid  heights  teased  us  to  mount  by  an  easy 
slope.  But  we  scraped  away  the  letters  and  the 
pictures.  Should  a  holiday,  we  thought,  be  ruined  by 
insidious  instruction?  Must  a  teacher's  wagging 
finger  always  come  among  us?    It  was  sufficient  that 


AT  A  TOY-SHOP  WINDOW  4-5 

five  blocks  end  to  end  made  a  railway  car,  with  finger- 
blocks  for  platforms ;  that  three  blocks  were  an  engine, 
with  a  block  on  top  to  be  a  smokestack.  We  had  no 
toy  mountain  and  pasteboard  tunnel,  as  in  the  soft 
fashion  of  the  present,  but  we  jacked  the  rug  with 
blocks  up  hill  and  down,  and  pushed  our  clanking 
trains  through  the  hollow  underneath.  It  was  an 
added  touch  to  build  a  castle  on  the  summit.  A  spool 
on  a  finger-block  was  the  Duke  himself  on  horseback, 
hunting  across  his  sloping  acres. 

There  was,  also,  in  the  chest,  a  remnant  of  iron  coal- 
cars  with  real  wheels.  Their  use  was  too  apparent. 
A  best  invention  was  to  turn  playthings  from  an 
obvious  design.  So  we  placed  one  of  the  coal-cars 
under  the  half  of  a  folding  checkerboard  and  by 
adding  masts  and  turrets  and  spools  for  guns  we  built 
a  battleship.  This  could  be  sailed  all  round  the  room, 
on  smooth  seas  where  the  floor  was  bare,  but  it  pitched 
and  tossed  upon  a  carpet.  If  it  came  to  port  battered 
by  the  storm,  should  it  be  condemned  like  a  ship  that 
is  broken  on  a  sunny  river  ?  Its  plates  and  rivets  had 
been  tested  in  a  tempest.  It  had  skirted  the  headlands 
at  the  staircase  and  passed  the  windy  Horn. 

Or  perhaps  we  built  a  fort  upon  the  beach  before 
the  fire.  It  was  a  pretty  warfare  between  ship  and 
fort,  with  marbles  used  shot  and  shot  in  turn.  A 
lucky  marble  toppled  the  checkerboard  off  its  balance 
and  wrecked  the  ship.  The  sailors,  after  scrambling 
in  the  water,  put  to  shore  on  flat  blocks  from  the  boat 
deck  and  were  held  as  prisoners  until  supper,  in  the 


46  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

dungeons  of  the  fort.  It  was  in  the  sitting-room  that 
we  played  these  games,  under  the  family's  feet.  They 
moved  above  our  sport  like  a  race  of  tolerant  giants ; 
but  when  callers  came,  we  were  brushed  to  the  rear  of 
the  house. 

Spools  were  men.  Thread  was  their  short  and  sub- 
sidiary use.  Their  larger  life  was  given  to  our  armies. 
We  had  several  hundred  of  them  threaded  on  long 
strings  on  the  closet-hooks.  But  if  a  great  campaign 
was  planned — if  the  Plains  of  Abraham  were  to  be 
stormed  or  Cornwallis  captured — our  recruiting  ser- 
geants rummaged  in  the  drawers  of  the  sewing- 
machine  for  any  spool  that  had  escaped  the  draft.  Or 
we  peeked  into  mother's  work-box,  and  if  a  spool  was 
almost  empty,  we  suddenly  became  anxious  about  our 
buttons.  Sometimes,  when  a  great  spool  was  needed 
for  a  general,  mother  wound  the  thread  upon  a  piece 
of  cardboard.  General  Grant  had  carried  black  silk. 
Napoleon  had  been  used  on  trouser-patches.  And 
my  grandmother  and  a  half-dozen  aunts  and  elder 
cousins  did  their  bit  and  plied  their  needles  for  the 
war.  In  this  regard  grandfather  was  a  slacker,  but 
he  directed  the  battle  from  the  sofa  with  his  crutch. 

Toothpicks  were  guns.  Every  soldier  had  a  gun. 
If  he  was  hit  by  a  marble  in  the  battle  and  the  tooth- 
pick remained  in  place,  he  was  only  wounded ;  but  he 
was  dead  if  the  toothpick  fell  out.  Of  each  two  men 
wounded,  by  Hague  Convention,  one  recovered  for 
the  next  engagement. 

Of  course  we  had  other  toys.     Lead  soldiers  in 


AT  A  TOY-SHOP  WINDOW  ^7 

cocked  hats  came  down  the  chimney  and  were  mar- 
shaled in  the  Christmas  dawn.  A  whole  Continental 
Army  lay  in  paper  sheets,  to  be  cut  out  with  scissors. 
A  steam  engine  with  a  coil  of  springs  and  key  fur- 
nished several  rainy  hoHdays.  A  red  wheel-barrow 
supphed  a  short  fury  of  enjoyment.  There  were 
sleds  and  skates,  and  a  printing  press  on  which  we 
printed  the  milkman's  tickets.  The  memory  still 
hngers  that  five  cents,  in  those  cheap  days,  bought  a 
pint  of  cream.  There  was,  also,  a  castle  with  a  prin- 
cess at  a  window.  Was  there  no  prince  to  climb  her 
trellis  and  bear  her  off  beneath  the  moon?  It  had 
happened  so  in  Astolat.  The  princes  of  the  gorgeous 
East  had  wooed,  also,  in  such  a  fashion.  Or  perhaps 
this  was  the  very  castle  that  the  wicked  Kazrac  lifted 
across  the  Chinese  mountains  in  the  night,  cheating 
Aladdin  of  his  bride.  It  was  a  rather  clever  idea,  as 
things  seem  now  in  this  time  of  general  shortage,  to 
steal  a  lady,  house  and  all,  not  forgetting  the  cook 
and  laundress.  But  one  day  a  little  girl  with  dark 
hair  smiled  at  me  from  next  door  and  gave  me  a 
Christmas  cake,  and  in  my  dreams  thereafter  she 
became  the  princess  in  my  castle. 

We  had  stone  blocks  with  arches  and  round  columns 
that  were  too  delicate  for  the  hazard  of  siege  and 
battle.  Once,  when  a  playmate  had  scarlet  fever,  we 
lent  them  to  him  for  his  convalescence.  Afterwards, 
against  contagion,  we  left  them  for  a  month  under  a 
bush  in  the  side  yard.  Every  afternoon  we  wet  them 
with  a  garden  hose.    Did  not  Noah's  floe  J  purify  the 


4.8  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

world  ?  It  would  be  a  stout  microbe,  we  thought,  that 
could  survive  the  deluge.  At  last  we  lifted  out  the 
blocks  at  arm's  length.  We  smelled  them  for  any 
lurking  fever.  They  were  damp  to  the  nose  and 
smelled  like  the  cement  under  the  back  porch.  But 
the  contagion  had  vanished  like  Noah's  wicked 
neighbors. 

But  store  toys  always  broke.  Wheels  came  off. 
Springs  were  snapped.  Even  the  princess  faded  at 
her  castle  window. 

Sometimes  a  toy,  when  it  was  broken,  arrived  at  a 
larger  usefulness.  Although  I  would  not  willingly 
forget  my  velocipede  in  its  first  gay  youth,  my 
memory  of  sharpest  pleasure  reverts  to  its  later  days, 
when  one  of  its  rear  wheels  was  gone.  It  had  been 
jammed  in  an  accident  against  the  piano.  It  has 
escaped  me  whether  the  piano  survived  the  jolt;  but 
the  velocipede  was  in  ruins.  When  the  wheel  came  off 
the  brewery  wagon  before  our  house  and  the  kegs 
rolled  here  and  there,  the  wreckage  was  hardly  so 
complete.  Three  spokes  were  broken  and  the  hub  was 
cracked.  At  first,  it  had  seemed  that  the  day  of  my 
velocipede  was  done.  We  laid  it  on  its  side  and  tied 
the  hub  with  rags.  It  looked  like  a  jaw  with  tooth- 
ache. Then  we  thought  of  the  old  baby-carriage  in 
the  storeroom.  Perhaps  a  transfusion  of  wheels  was 
possible.  We  conveyed  upstairs  a  hammer  and  a  saw. 
It  was  a  wobbling  and  impossible  experiment.  But 
at  the  top  of  the  house  there  was  a  kind  of  race-track 
around  the   four   posts   of   the   attic.     With  three 


AT  A  TOY-SHOP  WINDOW  49 

wheels  complete,  we  had  been  forced  to  ride  with 
caution  at  the  turns  or  be  pitched  against  the  sloping 
rafters.  We  now  discovered  that  a  missing  wheel 
gave  the  necessary  tilt  for  speed.  I  do  not  recall  that 
the  pedals  worked.  We  legged  it  on  both  sides.  Ten 
times  around  was  a  race ;  and  the  audience  sat  on  the 
ladder  to  the  roof  and  held  a  watch  with  a  second- 
hand for  records. 

Ours  was  a  roof  that  was  flat  in  the  center.  On 
winter  days,  when  snow  would  pack,  we  pelted  the 
friendly  milkman.  Ours,  also,  was  a  cellar  that  was 
lost  in  darkened  mazes.  A  blind  area  off  the  laundry, 
where  the  pantry  had  been  built  above,  seemed  to  be 
the  opening  of  a  cavern.  And  we  shuddered  at  the 
sights  that  must  meet  the  candle  of  the  furnaceman 
when  he  closed  the  draught  at  bedtime. 

Abandoned  furniture  had  uses  beyond  a  first  in- 
tention. A  folding-bed  of  ours  closed  to  about  the 
shape  of  a  piano.  When  the  springs  and  mattress 
were  removed  it  was  a  house  with  a  window  at  the 
end  where  a  wooden  flap  let  down.  Here  sat  the 
Prisoner  of  Chillon,  with  a  clothes-line  on  his  ankle. 
A  pile  of  old  furniture  in  the  attic,  covered  with  a 
cloth,  became  at  twilight  a  range  of  mountains  with  a 
gloomy  valley  at  the  back.  I  still  believe — for  so  does 
fancy  wanton  with  my  thoughts — that  Aladdin's  cave 
opens  beneath  those  walnut  bed-posts,  that  the  cavern 
of  jewels  needs  but  a  dusty  search  on  hands  and  knees. 
The  old  house,  alas,  has  come  to  foreign  use.  Does  no 
one  now  climb  the  attic  steps?    Has  tirr:  A^orn  down 


60  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  awful  Caucasus?  No  longer  is  there  children's 
laughter  on  the  stairs.  The  echo  of  their  feet  sleeps  at 
last  in  the  common  day. 

Nor  must  furniture,  of  necessity,  be  discarded. 
We  dived  from  the  footboard  of  our  bed  into  a  surf 
of  pillows.  We  climbed  its  headboard  like  a  mast, 
and  looked  for  pirates  on  the  sea.  A  sewing-table 
with  legs  folded  flat  was  a  sled  upon  the  stairs.  Must 
I  do  more  than  hint  that  two  bed-slats  make  a  pair 
of  stilts,  and  that  one  may  tilt  hke  King  Arthur  with 
the  wash-poles?  Or  who  shall  fix  a  narrow  use  for 
the  laundry  tubs,  or  put  a  limit  on  the  coal-hole  ?  And 
step-ladders !  There  are  persons  who  consider  a  step- 
ladder  as  a  menial.  This  is  an  injustice  to  a  giddy 
creature  that  needs  but  a  holiday  to  show  its  metal. 
On  Thursday  afternoons,  when  the  cook  was  out,  you 
would  never  know  it  for  the  same  thin  creature  that 
goes  on  work-days  with  a  pail  and  cleans  the  windows. 
It  is  a  tower,  a  shining  lighthouse,  a  crowded  grand- 
stand, a  circus,  a  ladder  to  the  moon. 

But  perhaps,  my  dear  young  sir,  you  are  so  lucky 
as  to  possess  a  smaller  and  inferior  brother  who  frets 
with  ridicule.  He  is  a  toy  to  be  desired  above  a  red 
velocipede.  I  offer  you  a  hint.  Print  upon  a  paper 
in  bold,  plain  letters — sucking  the  lead  for  extra 
blackness — that  he  is  afraid  of  the  dark,  that  he  likes 
the  girls,  that  he  is  a  butter-fingers  at  baseball  and 
teacher's  pet  and  otherwise  contemptible.  Paste  the 
paper  inside  the  glass  of  the  bookcase,  so  that  the 
insult  shows.     Then  lock  the  door  and  hide  the  key. 


AT  A  TOY-SHOP  WINDOW  51 

Let  him  gaze  at  this  placard  of  his  weakness  during 
a  rainy  afternoon.  But  I  caution  you  to  secure  the 
keys  of  all  similar  glass  doors — of  the  china  closet,  of 
the  other  bookcase^  of  the  knick-knack  cabinet.  Let 
him  stew  in  his  iniquity  without  chance  of  retaliation. 

But  perhaps,  in  general,  your  brother  is  inclined  to 
imitate  you  and  be  a  tardy  pattern  of  your  genius. 
He  apes  your  fashion  in  suspenders,  the  tilt  of  your 
cap,  your  method  in  shinny.  If  you  crouch  in  a  barrel 
in  hide-and-seek,  he  crowds  in  too.  You  wag  your 
head  from  side  to  side  on  your  bicycle  in  the  manner 
of  Zimmerman,  the  champion.  Your  brother  wags 
his,  too.  You  spit  in  your  catcher's  mit,  like  Kelly, 
the  ten-thousand-dollar  baseball  beauty.  Your 
brother  spits  in  his  mit,  too.  These  things  are  un- 
bearable. If  you  call  him  "sloppy"  when  his  face  is 
dirty,  he  merely  passes  you  back  the  insult  unchanged. 
If  you  call  him  "sloppy-two-times,"  still  he  has  no 
invention.  You  are  justified  now  to  call  him  "nigger" 
and  to  cuff  him  to  his  place. 

Tagging  is  his  worst  offense — tagging  along  behind 
when  you  are  engaged  on  serious  business.  "Now 
then,  sonny,"  you  say,  "run  home.  Get  nurse  to  blow 
your  nose."  Or  you  bribe  him  with  a  penny  to  mind 
his  business. 

I  must  say  a  few  words  about  paper-hangers, 
although  they  cannot  be  considered  as  toys  or  play- 
things by  any  rule  of  logic.  There  is  something  rather 
jolly  about  having  a  room  papered.  The  removal  of 
the  pictures  shows  how  the  old  paper  lOoked  before 


5^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

it  faded.  The  furniture  is  pushed  into  an  agreeable 
confusion  in  the  hall.  A  rocker  seems  starting  for 
the  kitchen.  The  great  couch  goes  out  the  window. 
A  chair  has  climbed  upon  a  table  to  look  about.  It 
needs  but  an  alpenstock  to  clamber  on  the  bookcase. 
The  carpet  marks  the  places  where  the  piano  legs 
came  down. 

And  the  paper-hanger  is  a  rather  jolly  person.  He 
sings  and  whistles  in  the  empty  room.  He  keeps  to 
a  tune,  day  after  day,  until  you  know  it.  He  slaps  his 
brush  as  if  he  liked  his  work.  It  is  a  sticky,  splashing, 
sloshing  slap.  Not  even  a  plasterer  deals  in  more  in- 
teresting material.  And  he  settles  down  on  you  with 
ladders  and  planks  as  if  a  circus  had  moved  in.  After 
hours,  when  he  is  gone,  you  climb  on  his  planking  and 
cross  Niagara,  as  it  were,  with  a  cane  for  balance.  To 
this  day  I  think  of  paper-hangers  as  a  kindly  race  of 
men,  who  sing  in  echoing  rooms  and  eat  pie  and  pickles 
for  their  lunch.  Except  for  their  Adam's  apples — got 
with  gazing  at  the  ceiling — surely  not  the  wicked 
apple  of  the  Garden — I  would  wish  to  be  a  paper- 
hanger. 

Plumbers  were  a  darker  breed,  who  chewed  tobacco 
fetched  up  from  their  hip-pockets.  They  were 
enemies  of  the  cook  by  instinct,  and  they  spat  in  dark 
corners.  We  once  found  a  cake  of  their  tobacco  when 
they  were  gone.  We  carried  it  to  the  safety  of  the 
furnace-room  and  bit  into  it  in  turn.  It  was  of  a 
sweetish  flavor  of  licorice  that  was  not  unpleasant. 
But  the  sin  was  too  enormous  for  our  comfort. 


AT  A  TOY-SHOP  WINDOW  53 

But  in  November,  when  days  were  turning  cold 
and  hands  were  chapped,  our  parents'  thoughts  ran  to 
the  kindhng-pile,  to  stock  it  for  the  winter.  Now  the 
kindhng-pile  was  the  best  quarry  for  our  toys,  because 
it  was  bought  from  a  washboard  factory  around  the 
corner.  Not  every  child  has  the  good  fortune  to  live 
near  a  washboard  factory.  Necessary  as  washboards 
are,  a  factory  of  modest  output  can  supply  a  county, 
with  even  a  little  dribble  for  export  into  neighbor 
counties.  Many  unlucky  children,  therefore,  live  a 
good  ten  miles  off,  and  can  never  know  the  fascinating 
discard  of  its  lathes — ^the  little  squares  and  cubes,  the 
volutes  and  rhythmic  flourishes  which  are  cast  off  in 
manufacture  and  are  sold  as  kindling.  They  think  a 
washboard  is  a  dulLand  common  thing.  To  them  it 
smacks  of  Monday.  It  smells  of  yellow  soap  and 
suds.  It  wears,  so  to  speak,  a  checkered  blouse  and 
carries  clothes-pins  in  its  mouth.  It  has  perspiration 
on  its  nose.  They  do  not  know,  in  their  pitiable  igno- 
rance, the  towers  and  bridges  that  can  be  made  from 
the  scourings  of  a  washboard  factory. 

Our  washboard  factory  was  a  great  wooden  struc- 
ture that  had  been  built  for  a  roller-skating  rink. 
Father  and  mother,  as  youngsters  in  the  time  of  their 
courtship,  had  cut  fancy  eights  upon  the  floor.  And 
still,  in  these  later  days,  if  you  listened  outside  a  win- 
dow, you  heard  a  whirling  roar,  as  if  perhaps  the 
skaters  had  returned  and  again  swept  the  corners 
madly.  But  it  was  really  the  sound  of  ixachinery  that 
you  heard,  fashioning  toys  and  blocks  for  us.     At 


5^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

noonday,  comely  red-faced  girls  ate  their  lunches  on 
the  window-sills,  ready  for  conversation  and  acquaint- 
ance. 

And  now,  for  several  days,  a  rumor  has  been 
running  around  the  house  that  a  wagon  of  kindling  is 
expected.  Each  afternoon,  on  our  return  from  school, 
we  run  to  the  cellar.  Even  on  baking-day  the  whiff 
of  cookies  holds  us  only  for  a  minute.  We  wait  only 
to  stuff  our  pockets.  And  at  last  the  great  day  comes. 
The  fresh  wood  is  piled  to  the  ceiling.  It  is  a  high 
mound  and  chaos,  without  form  but  certainly  not 
void.  For  there  are  long  pieces  for  bridges,  fiat  pieces 
for  theatre  scenery,  tall  pieces  for  towers  and  grooves 
for  marbles.  It  is  a  vast  quarry  for  our  pleasant  use. 
You  will  please  leave  us  in  the  twilight,  sustained  by 
doughnuts,  burrowing  in  the  pile,  throwing  out  sticks 
to  replenish  our  chest  of  blocks. 

And  therefore  on  this  Christmas  night,  as  I  stand 
before  the  toy- shop  in  the  whirling  storm,  the  wind 
brings  me  the  laughter  of  these  far-off  children.  The 
snow  of  thirty  winters  is  piled  in  my  darkened 
memory,  but  I  hear  shrill  voices  across  the  night. 


Sic  Transit — 

I  DO  not  recall  a  feeling  of  greater  triumph  than 
on  last  Saturday  when  I  walked  off  the  eight- 
eenth green  of  the  Country  Club  with  my  oppo- 
nent four  down.  I  have  the  card  before  me  now  with 
its  pleasant  row  of  fives  and  sixes,  and  a  four,  and  a 
three.  Usually  my  card  has  mounted  here  and  there 
to  an  eight  or  nine,  or  I  have  blown  up  altogether  in 
a  sandpit.  Like  Byron — but,  oh,  how  differently! — 
I  have  wandered  in  the  pathless  wood.  Like  Ruth 
I  have  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn. 

In  those  old  days^r-only  a  week  ago,  but  dim  al- 
ready (so  soon  does  time  wash  the  memory  white)  — 
in  those  old  days,  if  I  were  asked  to  make  up  a  four- 
some, some  green  inferior  fellow,  a  novice  who  used 
his  sister's  clubs,  was  paired  against  me;  or  I  was 
insulted  with  two  strokes  a  hole,  with  three  on  the  long 
hole  past  the  woods.  But  now  I  shall  ascend  to  faster 
company.  It  was  my  elbow.  I  now  square  it  and 
cock  it  forward  a  bit.  And  I  am  cured.  Keep  your 
head  down,  Fritzie  Boy,  I  say.  Mind  your  elbow — I 
say  it  aloud — and  I  have  no  trouble. 

There  is  a  creek  across  the  course.  Like  a  thread 
in  the  woof  it  cuts  the  web  of  nearly  every  green.  It 
is  a  black  strand  that  puts  trouble  in  th<^  pattern,  an 
evil  thread  from  Clotho's  ancient  loom.  Up  at  the 
sixth  hole  this  creek  is  merely  a  dirty  rivulet  and  I  can 


56  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

get  out  of  the  damned  thing — one  must  write,  they 
say,  as  one  talks  and  not  go  on  stilts — I  can  get  out 
with  a  niblick  by  splashing  myself  a  bit.  But  even 
here,  in  its  tender  youth,  as  it  were,  the  rivulet  makes 
all  the  mischief  that  it  can.  Gargantua  with  his 
nurses  was  not  so  great  a  rogue.  It  crawls  back  and 
forth  three  times  before  the  tee  with  a  kind  of  jeering 
tongue  stuck  out.  It  seems  foredoomed  from  the 
cradle  to  a  villainous  course.  Farther  down,  at  the 
seventeenth  and  second  holes,  which  are  near  together, 
it  cuts  a  deeper  chasm.  The  bank  is  shale  and  steep. 
As  I  drive  I  feel  like  a  black  sinner  on  the  nearer 
shore  of  Styx,  gazing  upon  the  sunny  fields  of  Para- 
dise beyond.  I  put  my  caddy  at  the  top  of  the  slope, 
where  he  sits  with  his  apathetic  eye  upon  the  sullen, 
predestined  pool. 

But  since  last  Saturday  all  is  different.  I  sailed 
across  on  every  drive,  on  every  approach.  The  depths 
beckoned  but  I  heeded  not.  And,  when  I  walked 
across  the  bridge,  I  snapped  my  fingers  in  contempt, 
as  at  a  dog  that  snarls  safely  on  a  leash. 

I  play  best  with  a  niblick.  It  is  not  entirely  that  I 
use  it  most.  (Any  day  you  can  hear  me  bawling  to 
my  caddy  to  fetch  it  behind  a  bunker  or  beyond  a 
fence. )  Rather,  the  surface  of  the  blade  turns  up  at 
a  reassuring,  hopeful  angle.  Its  shining  eye  seems 
cast  at  heaven  in  a  prayer.  I  have  had  spells,  also,  of 
fondness  for  my  mashie.  It  is  fluted  for  a  back-spin. 
Except  for  the  click  and  flight  of  a  prosperous  drive  I 
know  nothing  of  prettier  symmetry  than  an  accurate 


SIC  TRANSIT—  B7 

approach.  But  my  brassie  I  consider  a  reckless  crea- 
ture. It  has  bad  direction.  It  treads  not  in  the 
narrow  path.  I  have  driven.  Good !  For  once  I  am 
clear  of  the  woods.  That  white  speck  on  the  fairway- 
is  my  ball.  But  shall  my  ambition  o'erleap  itself? 
Shall  I  select  my  brassie  and  tempt  twice  the  gods  of 
chance?  No!  I'll  use  my  mashie.  I'll  creep  up  to 
the  hole  on  hands  and  knees  and  be  safe  from  trap 
and  ditch. 

Has  anyone  spent  more  time  than  I  among  the 
blackberry  bushes  along  the  railroad  tracks  on  the 
eleventh?  It  is  no  grossness  of  appetite.  My  niblick 
grows  hot  with  its  exertions. 

Once  our  course  was  not  beset  with  sandpits.  In 
those  bright  days  woods  and  guUey  were  enough. 
Once  clear  of  the  initial  obstruction  I  could  roll  up 
unimpeded  to  the  green.  I  practiced  a  bouncing 
stroke  with  my  putter  that  offered  security  at  twenty 
yards.  But  now  these  approaches  are  guarded  by 
traps.  The  greens  are  balanced  on  little  mountains 
with  sharp  ditches  all  about.  I  hoist  up  from  one  to 
fall  into  another.  "What  a  word,  my  son,  has  passed 
the  barrier  of  your  teeth!"  said  Athene  once  to  Odys- 
seus. Is  the  game  so  ancient?  Were  there  sandpits, 
also,  on  the  hills  of  stony  Ithaca?  Or  in  Ortygia,  sea- 
girt ?  Was  the  dear  wanderer  off  his  game  and  fallen 
to  profanity?  The  white-armed  nymph  Calypso  must 
have  stuffed  her  ears. 

But  now  my  troubles  are  behind  me.  I  have  cured 
my  elbow  of  its  fault.     I  keep  my  head  down.    My 


58  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

very  clubs  have  taken  on  a  different  look  since  Satur- 
day. I  used  to  remark  their  nicks  against  the  stones. 
A  bit  of  green  upon  the  heel  of  my  driver  showed  how 
it  was  that  I  went  sidewise  to  the  woods.  In  those 
days  I  carried  the  bag  spitefully  to  the  shower. 
Could  I  leave  it,  I  pondered,  as  a  foundling  in  an 
empty  locker  ?  Or  should  I  strangle  it  ?  But  now  all 
is  changed.  My  clubs  are  servants  to  my  will,  kindly, 
obedient  creatures  that  wait  upon  my  nod.  Even  my 
brassie  knows  me  for  its  master.  And  the  country 
seems  fairer.  The  valleys  smile  at  me.  The  creek  is 
friendly  to  my  drive.  The  tall  hills  skip  and  clap  their 
hands  at  my  approach.  My  game  needs  only  thought 
and  care.  My  fives  will  become  fours,  my  sixes  slip 
down  to  fives.  And  here  and  there  I  shall  have  a 
three. 

Except  for  a  row  of  books  my  mantelpiece  is  bare. 
Who  knows  ?  Some  day  I  may  sweep  off  a  musty  row 
of  history  and  set  up  a  silver  cup. 

Later — Saturday  again.  I  have  just  been  around 
in  123.  Horrible!  I  was  in  the  woods  and  in  the 
blackberry  bushes,  and  in  the  creek  seven  times.  My 
envious  brassie!  My  well-beloved  mashie!  Oh,  vile 
conspiracy!  Ambition's  debt  is  paid.  123!  Now — 
now  it's  my  shoulder. 


The  Posture  of  Authors. 


THERE  is  something  rather  pleasantly  sug- 
gestive in  the  fashion  employed  by  many  of 
the  older  writers  of  inscribing  their  books  from 
their  chambers  or  lodging.  It  gives  them  at  once 
locality  and  circmnstance.  It  brings  them  to  our 
common  earth  and  understanding.  Thomas  Fuller, 
for  example,  having  finished  his  Church  History  of 
Britain,  addressed  his  reader  in  a  preface  from  his 
chambers  in  Sion  College.  "May  God  alone  have  the 
glory,"  he  writes,  "and  the  ingenuous  reader  the  bene- 
fit, of  my  endeavors !  which  is  the  hearty  desire  of  Thy 
servant  in  Jesus  Christ,  Thomas  Fuller." 

One  pictures  a  room  in  the  Tudor  style,  with  oak 
wainscot,  tall  mullioned  windows  and  leaded  glass,  a 
deep    fireplace    and   black   beams    above.      Outside, 


60  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

perhaps,  is  the  green  quadrangle  of  the  college, 
cloistered  within  ancient  buildings,  with  gay  wall- 
flowers against  the  sober  stones.  Bells  answer  from 
tower  to  belfry  in  agreeable  dispute  upon  the  hour. 
They  were  cast  in  a  quieter  time  and  refuse  to  bicker 
on  a  paltry  minute.  The  sunhght  is  soft  and  yellow 
with  old  age.  Such  a  dedication  from  such  a  place 
might  turn  the  most  careless  reader  into  scholarship. 
In  the  seat  of  its  leaded  windows  even  the  quirk  of  a 
Latin  sentence  might  find  a  meaning.  Here  would  be 
a  room  in  which  to  meditate  on  the  worthies  of  old 
England,  or  to  read  a  chronicle  of  forgotten  kings, 
queens,  and  protesting  lovers  who  have  faded  into 
night. 

Here  we  see  Thomas  Fuller  dip  his  quill  and  make 
a  start.  "I  have  sometimes  solitarily  pleased  myself," 
he  begins,  and  he  gazes  into  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
room,  seeing,  as  it  were,  the  pleasant  spectres  of  the 
past.  Bishops  of  Britain,  long  dead,  in  stole  and 
mitre,  forgetful  of  their  solemn  office,  dance  in  the 
firelight  on  his  walls.  Popes  move  in  dim  review 
across  his  studies  and  shake  a  ghostly  finger  at  his 
heresy.  The  past  is  not  a  prude.  To  her  lover  she 
reveals  her  beauty.  And  the  scholar's  lamp  is  her 
marriage  torch. 

Nor  need  it  entirely  cool  our  interest  to  learn  that 
Sion  College  did  not  slope  thus  in  country  fashion  to 
the  peaceful  waters  of  the  Cam,  with  its  fringe  of 
trees  and  sunny  meadow;  did  not  possess  even  a 
gothic  tower  and  cloister.    It  was  built  on  the  site  of 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  61 

an  ancient  priory,  Elsing  Spital,  with  almshouses 
attached,  a  Jesuit  library  and  a  college  for  the  clergy. 
It  was  right  in  London,  down  near  the  Roman  wall, 
in  the  heart  of  the  tangled  traffic,  and  street  cries  kept 
breaking  in — ^muffins,  perhaps,  and  hot  spiced  ginger- 
bread and  broken  glass.  I  hope,  at  least,  that  the 
good  gentleman's  rooms  were  up  above,  somewhat  out 
of  the  clatter,  where  muffins  had  lost  their  shrillness. 
Gingerbread,  when  distance  has  reduced  it  to  a  pleas- 
ant tune,  is  not  inclined  to  rouse  a  scholar  from  his 
meditation.  And  even  broken  glass  is  blunted  on  a 
journey  to  a  garret.  I  hope  that  the  old  gentleman 
climbed  three  flights  or  more  and  that  a  range  of 
chimney-pots  was  his  outlook  and  speculation. 

It  seems  as  if  a  rather  richer  flavor  were  given  to  a 
book  by  knowing  the  circumstance  of  its  composition. 
Not  only  would  we  know  the  complexion  of  a  man, 
whether  he  "be  a  black  or  a  fair  man,"  as  Addison 
suggests,  "of  a  mild  or  choleric  disposition,  married  or 
a  bachelor,"  but  also  in  what  posture  he  works  and 
what  objects  meet  his  eye  when  he  squares  his  elbows 
and  dips  his  pen.  We  are  concerned  whether  sun- 
light falls  upon  his  papers  or  whether  he  writes  in 
shadow.  Also,  if  an  author's  desk  stands  at  a  window, 
we  are  curious  whether  it  looks  on  a  street,  or  on  a 
garden,  or  whether  it  squints  blindly  against  a  wall. 
A  view  across  distant  hills  surely  sweetens  the  imagi- 
nation, whereas  the  clatter  of  the  city  gives  a  shrewder 
twist  to  fancy. 

And  household  matters  are  of  proper  concern.    We 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


would  like  to  be  informed  whether  an  author  works  in 
the  swirl  of  the  common  sitting-room.  If  he  writes 
within  earshot  of  the  kitchen,  we  should  know  it. 
There  has  been  debate  whether  a  steam  radiator  chills 
a  poet  as  against  an  open  fire,  and  whether  a  plot 
keeps  up  its  giddy  pace  upon  a  sweeping  day.  His- 
tories have  balked  before  a  household  interruption. 
Novels  have  been  checked  by  the  rattle  of  a  careless 
broom.  A  smoky  chimney  has  choked  the  sturdiest 
invention. 

If  a  plot  goes  slack  perhaps  it  is  a  bursted  pipe. 
An  incessant  grocer's  boy,  unanswered  on  the  back 
porch,  has  often  foiled  the  wicked  Earl  in  his  attempts 
against  the  beautiful  Pomona.  Little  did  you  think, 
my  dear  madam,  as  you  read  your  latest  novel,  that 
on  the  very  instant  when  the  heroine,  Mrs.  Elmira 
Jones,  deserted  her  babies  to  follow  her  conscience 
and  become  a  movie  actress — that  on  that  very  in- 
stant when  she  slammed  the  street  door,  the  plumber 
(the  author's  plumber)  came  in  to  test  the  radiator. 
Mrs.  Jones  nearly  took  her  death  on  the  steps  as  she 
waited  for  the  plot  to  deal  with  her.  Even  a  Marquis, 
now  and  then,  one  of  the  older  sort  in  wig  and  ruffles, 
has  been  left — when  the  author's  ashes  have  needed 
attention — on  his  knees  before  the  Lady  Emily, 
begging  her  to  name  the  happy  day. 

Was  it  not  Coleridge's  cow  that  calved  while  he  was 
writing  "Kubla  Khan"?  In  burst  the  housemaid  with 
the  joyful  news.  And  that  man  from  Porlock — men- 
tioned in  his  letters — who  came  on  business?    Did  he 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  63 

not  despoil  the  morning  of  its  poetry?  Did  Words- 
worth's pigs — surely  he  owned  pigs — never  get  into 
his  neighbor's  garden  and  need  quick  attention? 
Martin  Luther  threw  his  inkpot,  supposedly,  at  the 
devil.  Is  it  not  more  likely  that  it  was  at  Annie,  who 
came  to  dust?  Thackeray  is  said  to  have  written 
largely  at  his  club,  the  Garrick  or  the  Athenseum. 
There  was  a  general  stir  of  feet  and  voices,  but  it  was 
foreign  and  did  not  plague  him.  A  tinkle  of  glasses 
in  the  distance,  he  confessed,  was  soothing,  like  a 
waterfall. 

Steele  makes  no  complaint  against  his  wife  Prue, 
but  he  seems  to  have  written  chiefly  in  taverns.  In 
the  very  first  paper  of  the  Taller  he  gratifies  our 
natural  curiosity  by  naming  the  several  coffee-houses 
where  he  intends  to  compose  his  thoughts.  "Foreign 
and  domestic  news,"  he  says,  "you  will  have  from 
Saint  James's  Coffee-House."  Learning  will  proceed 
from  the  Grecian.  But  "all  accounts  of  gallantry, 
pleasure  and  entertainment  shall  be  under  the  article 
of  White's  Chocolate-House."  In  the  month  of  Sep- 
tember, 1705,  he  continues,  a  gentleman  "was  washing 
his  teeth  at  a  tavern  window  in  Pall  Mall,  when  a  fine 
equipage  passed  by,  and  in  it,  a  young  lady  who 
looked  up  at  him ;  away  goes  the  coach — "  Away  goes 
the  beauty,  with  an  alluring  smile — rather  an  am- 
biguous smile,  I'm  afraid — across  her  silken  shoulder. 
But  for  the  continuation  of  this  pleasant  scandal  (you 
may  be  sure  that  the  pretty  fellow  was  quite  distracted 


6J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

from  his  teeth)  one  must  turn  up  the  yellow  pages  of 
the  Tatler. 

We  may  suppose  that  Steele  called  for  pens  and 
paper  and  a  sandbox,  and  took  a  table  in  one  of 
White's  forward  windows.  He  wished  no  garden 
view  or  brick  wall  against  the  window.  We  may  even 
go  so  far  as  to  assume  that  something  in  the  way  of 
punch,  or  canary,  or  negus  luke,  my  dear,  was  handy 
at  his  elbow.  His  paragraphs  are  punctuated  by  the 
gay  procession  of  the  street.  Here  goes  a  great  dandy 
in  red  heels,  with  lace  at  his  beard  and  wrists.  Here 
is  a  scarlet  captain  who  has  served  with  Marlborough 
and  has  taken  a  whole  regiment  of  Frenchmen  by  the 
nose.  Here  is  the  Lady  Belinda  in  her  chariot,  who  is 
the  pledge  of  all  the  wits  and  poets.  That  little  pink 
ear  of  hers  has  been  rhymed  in  a  hundred  sonnets — 
ear  and  tear  and  fear  and  near  and  dear.  The  King 
has  been  toasted  from  her  slipper.  The  pretty  crea- 
ture has  been  sitting  at  ombre  for  most  of  the  night, 
but  now  at  four  of  the  afternoon  she  takes  the  morning 
air  with  her  lap  dog.  That  great  hat  and  feather  will 
slay  another  dozen  hearts  between  shop  and  shop.  She 
is  attended  by  a  female  dragon,  but  contrives  by  acci- 
dent to  show  an  inch  or  so  of  charming  stocking  at 
the  curb.  Steele,  at  his  window,  I'm  afraid,  forgets 
for  the  moment  his  darling  Prue  and  his  promise  to 
be  home. 

There  is  something  rather  pleasant  in  knowing 
where  these  old  authors,  who  are  now  almost  for- 
gotten, wrote  their  books.     Richardson  wrote  "Cla- 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  65 

rissa"  at  Parson's  Green.  That  ought  not  to  interest 
us  very  much,  for  nobody  reads  "Clarissa"  now.  But 
we  can  picture  the  fat  little  printer  reading  his  daily 
batch  of  tender  letters  from  young  ladies,  begging  him 
to  reform  the  wicked  Lovelace  and  turn  the  novel  to 
a  happy  end.  For  it  was  issued  in  parts  and  so,  of 
course,  there  was  no  opportunity  for  young  ladies, 
however  impatient,  to  thumb  the  back  pages  for  the 
plot. 

Richardson  wrote  "Pamela"  at  a  house  called  the 
Grange,  then  in  the  open  country  just  out  of  London. 
There  was  a  garden  at  the  back,  and  a  grotto — one  of 
the  grottoes  that  had  been  the  fashion  for  prosperous 
literary  gentlemen  since  Pope  had  built  himself  one 
at  Twickenham.  Here,  it  is  said,  Richardson  used  to 
read  his  story,  day  by  day,  as  it  was  freshly  composed, 
to  a  circle  of  his  lady  admirers.  Hugh  Thompson  has 
drawn  the  picture  in  delightful  silhouette.  The  ladies 
listen  in  suspense — perhaps  the  wicked  Master  is  just 
taking  Pamela  on  his  knee — ^their  hands  are  raised  in 
protest.  La!  The  Monster!  Their  noses  are  pitched 
up  to  a  high  excitement.  One  old  lady  hangs  her 
head  and  blushes  at  the  outrage.  Or  does  she  cock 
her  ear  to  hear  the  better  ? 

Richardson  had  a  kind  of  rocking-horse  in  his  study 
and  he  took  his  exercise  so  between  chapters.  We 
may  imagine  him  galloping  furiously  on  the  hearth- 
rug, then,  quite  refreshed,  after  four  or  five  dishes  of 
tea,  hiding  his  villain  once  more  under  Pamela's  bed. 
Did  it  never  occur  to  that  young  lady  to  lift  the 


66  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

valance?  Half  a  dozen  times  at  least  he  has  come 
popping  out  after  she  has  loosed  her  stays,  once  even 
when  she  has  got  her  stockings  off.  Perhaps  this  is 
the  dangerous  moment  when  the  old  lady  in  the  sil- 
houette hung  her  head  and  blushed.  If  Pamela  had 
gone  rummaging  vigorously  with  a  poker  beneath  her 
bed  she  could  have  cooled  her  lover. 

Goldsmith  wrote  his  books,  for  the  most  part,  in 
lodgings.  We  find  him  starving  with  the  beggars  in 
Axe  Lane,  advancing  to  Green  Arbour  Court — send- 
ing down  to  the  cook-shop  for  a  tart  to  make  his 
supper — living  in  the  Temple,  as  his  fortunes  mended. 
Was  it  not  at  his  window  in  the  Temple  that  he  wrote 
part  of  his  "Animated  Nature"?  His  first  chapter — 
four  pages — is  called  a  sketch  of  the  universe.  In 
four  pages  he  cleared  the  beginning  up  to  Adam. 
Could  anything  be  simpler  or  easier?  The  clever 
fellow,  no  doubt,  could  have  made  the  universe — 
actually  made  it  out  of  chaos — stars  and  moon  and 
fishes  in  the  sea — in  less  than  the  allotted  six  days 
and  not  needed  a  rest  upon  the  seventh.  He  could 
have  gone,  instead,  in  plum-colored  coat — "in  full 
fig" — to  Vauxhall  for  a  frolic.  Goldsmith  had 
nothing  in  particular  outside  of  his  window  to  look  at 
but  the  stone  flagging,  a  pump  and  a  solitary  tree. 
Of  the  whole  green  earth  this  was  the  only  living  thing. 
For  a  brief  season  a  bird  or  two  lodged  there,  and 
you  may  be  sure  that  Goldsmith  put  the  remnant  of 
his  crumbs  upon  the  window  casement.  Perhaps  it 
was  here  that  he  sent  down  to  the  cook-shop  for  a 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  67 

tart,  and  he  and  the  birds  made  a  common  banquet 
across  the  glass. 

Poets,  depending  on  their  circumstance,  are  sup- 
posed to  write  either  in  garrets  or  in  gardens. 
Browning,  it  is  true,  lived  at  Casa  Guidi,  which  was 
"yellow  with  sunshine  from  morning  to  evening,"  and 
here  and  there  a  prosperous  Byron  has  a  Persian  car- 
pet and  mahogany  desk.  But,  for  the  most  part,  we 
put  our  poets  in  garrets,  as  a  cheap  place  that  has  the 
additional  advantage  of  being  nearest  to  the  moon. 
From  these  high  windows  sonnets  are  thrown,  on  a 
windy  night.  Rhymes  and  fancies  are  roused  by 
gazing  on  the  stars.  The  rumble  of  the  lower  city  is 
potent  to  start  a  metaphor.  "These  fringes  of  lamp- 
light," it  is  written,  "struggling  up  through  smoke  and 
thousandfold  exhalation,  some  fathoms  into  the  an- 
cient reign  of  Night,  what  thinks  Bootes  of  them,  as 
he  leads  his  Hunting-dogs  over  the  Zenith  in  their 
leash  of  sidereal  fire?  That  stifled  hum  of  Midnight, 
when  Traffic  has  lain  down  to  rest.  ..." 

Here,  under  a  sloping  roof,  the  poet  sits,  blowing 
at  his  fingers.  Hogarth  has  drawn  him — the  Dis- 
tressed Poet — cold  and  lean  and  shabby.  That 
famous  picture  might  have  been  copied  from  the  life 
of  any  of  a  hundred  creatures  of  "The  Dunciad,"  and, 
with  a  change  of  costume,  it  might  serve  our  time  as 
well.  The  poor  fellow  sits  at  a  broken  table  in  the 
dormer.  About  him  lie  his  scattered  sheets.  His 
wife  mends  his  breeches.  Outside  the  door  stands  a 
woman  with  the  unpaid  milk-score.     There  is  not  a 


68  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

penny  in  the  place — and  for  food  only  half  a  loaf  and 
something  brewing  in  a  kettle.  You  may  remember 
that  when  Johnson  was  a  young  poet,  just  come  to 
London,  he  lived  with  Mr.  Cave  in  St.  John's  Gate. 
When  there  were  visitors  he  ate  his  supper  behind  a 
screen  because  he  was  too  shabby  to  show  himself.  I 
wonder  what  definition  he  gave  the  poet  in  his  dic- 
tionary. If  he  wrote  in  his  own  experience,  he  put 
him  down  as  a  poor  devil  who  was  always  hungry. 
But  Chatterton  actually  died  of  starvation  in  a  garret, 
and  those  other  hundred  poets  of  his  time  and  ours 
got  down  to  the  bone  and  took  to  coughing.  Perhaps 
we  shall  change  our  minds  about  that  sonnet  which  we 
tossed  lightly  to  the  moon.  The  wind  thrusts  a  cold 
finger  through  chink  and  rag.  The  stars  travel  on 
such  lonely  journeys.  The  jest  loses  its  relish.  Per- 
haps those  merry  verses  to  the  Christmas — the  sleigh 
bells  and  the  roasted  goose — perhaps  those  verses  turn 
bitter  when  written  on  an  empty  stomach. 

But  do  poets  ever  write  in  gardens?  Swift,  who 
was  by  way  of  being  a  poet,  built  himself  a  garden- 
seat  at  Moor  Park  when  he  served  Sir  William 
Temple,  but  I  don't  know  that  he  wrote  poetry  there. 
Rather,  it  was  a  place  for  reading.  Pope  in  his  pros- 
perous days  wrote  at  Twickenham,  with  the  sound  of 
his  artificial  waterfall  in  his  ears,  and  he  walked  to 
take  the  air  in  his  grotto  along  the  Thames.  But  do 
poets  really  wander  beneath  the  moon  to  think  their 
verses  ?  Do  they  compose  "on  summer  eve  by  haunted 
stream"  ?    I  doubt  whether  Gray  conceived  his  Elegy 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  69 

in  an  actual  graveyard.  I  smell  oil.  One  need 
not  see  the  thing  described  upon  the  very  moment. 
Shelley  wrote  of  mountains — the  awful  range  of  Cau- 
casus— but  his  eye  at  the  time  looked  on  sunny  Italy. 
Ibsen  wrote  of  the  north  when  living  in  the  south. 
When  Bunyan  wrote  of  the  Delectable  Mountains  he 
was  snug  inside  a  jail.  Shakespeare,  doubtless,  saw 
the  giddy  cliffs  of  Dover,  the  Rialto,  the  Scottish 
heath,  from  the  vantage  of  a  London  lodging. 

Where  did  Andrew  Marvell  stand  or  sit  or  walk 
when  he  wrote  about  gardens  ?  Wordsworth  is  said  to 
have  strolled  up  and  down  a  gravel  path  with  his  eyes 
on  the  ground.  I  wonder  whether  the  gardener  ever 
broke  in — ^if  he  had  a  gardener — to  complain  about 
the  drouth  or  how  the  dandelions  were  getting  the 
better  of  him.  Or  perhaps  the  lawn-mower  squeaked 
— if  he  had  a  lawn-mower — and  threw  him  off.  But 
wasn't  it  Wordsworth  who  woke  up  four  times  in  one 
night  and  called  to  his  wife  for  pens  and  paper  lest  an 
idea  escape  him?  Surely  he  didn't  take  to  the  garden 
at  that  time  of  night  in  his  pajamas  with  an  inkpot. 
But  did  Wordsworth  have  a  wife?  How  one  forgets! 
Coleridge  told  Hazhtt  that  he  liked  to  compose  "walk- 
ing over  uneven  ground,  or  breaking  through  the 
straggling  branches  of  a  copse-wood."  But  then,  you 
recall  that  a  calf  broke  into  "Kubla  Khan."  On  that 
particular  day,  at  least,  he  was  snug  in  his  study. 

No,  I  think  that  poets  may  like  to  sit  in  gardens 
and  smoke  their  pipes  and  poke  idly  with  their  sticks, 
but  when  it  comes  actually  to  composing  they  would 


70  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

rather  go  inside.  For  even  a  little  breeze  scatters 
their  papers.  No  poet  wishes  to  spend  his  precious 
morning  chasing  a  frisky  sonnet  across  the  lawn. 
Even  a  heavy  epic,  if  lifted  by  a  sudden  squall,  chal- 
lenges the  swiftest  foot.  He  puts  his  stick  on  one  pile 
and  his  pipe  on  another  and  he  holds  down  loose  sheets 
with  his  thumb.  But  it  is  awkward  business,  and  it 
checks  the  mind  in  its  loftier  flight. 

Nor  do  poets  care  to  suck  their  pencils  too  long 
where  someone  may  see  them — perhaps  Annie  at  the 
window  rolling  her  pie-crust.  And  they  can't  kick 
off  their  shoes  outdoors  in  the  hot  agony  of  composi- 
tion. And  also,  which  caps  the  argument,  a  garden 
is  undeniably  a  sleepy  place.  The  bees  drone  to  a 
sleepy  tune.  The  breeze  practices  a  lullaby.  Even 
the  sunlight  is  in  the  common  conspiracy.  At  the 
very  moment  when  the  poet  is  considering  Little  Miss 
Muffet  and  how  she  sat  on  a  tuffet — doubtless  in  a 
garden,  for  there  were  spiders — even  at  the  very 
moment  when  she  sits  unsuspectingly  at  her  curds  and 
whey,  down  goes  the  poet's  head  and  he  is  fast  asleep. 
Sleepiness  is  the  plague  of  authors.  You  may  remem- 
ber that  when  Christian — who,  doubtless,  was  an 
author  in  his  odd  moments — came  to  the  garden  and 
the  Arbour  on  the  Hill  Difficulty,  "he  pulled  his  Roll 
out  of  his  bosom  and  read  therein  to  his  comfort.  .  .  . 
Thus  pleasing  himself  awhile,  he  at  last  fell  into  a 
slumber."  I  have  no  doubt — other  theories  to  the  con- 
trary— that  "Kubla  Khan"  broke  off  suddenly  because 
Coleridge  dropped  off  to  sleep.    A  cup  of  black  coffee 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  71 

might  have  extended  the  poem  to  another  stanza. 
Mince  pie  would  have  stretched  it  to  a  volume.  Is  not 
Shakespeare  allowed  his  forty  winks?  Has  it  not 
been  written  that  even  the  worthy  Homer  nods  ? 

"A  pleasing  land  of  drowsyhed  it  was : 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half- shut  eye ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky." 

No,  if  one  has  a  bit  of  writing  to  put  out  of  the  way, 
it  is  best  to  stay  indoors.  Choose  an  uncomfortable, 
straight-backed  chair.  Toss  the  sheets  into  a  careless 
litter.  And  if  someone  will  pay  the  milk-score  and 
keep  the  window  mended,  a  garret  is  not  a  bad  place 
in  which  to  write. 

Novelists — ^unless  they  have  need  of  history — can 
write  anywhere,  I  suppose,  at  home  or  on  a  journey. 
In  the  burst  of  their  hot  imagination  a  knee  is  a  desk. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Hugh  Walpole,  touring  in 
this  country,  contrives  to  write  a  bit  even  in  a  Pull- 
man. The  ingenious  Mr.  Oppenheim  surely  dashes  off 
a  plot  on  the  margin  of  the  menu-card  between  meat 
and  salad.  We  know  that  "Pickwick  Papers"  was 
written  partly  in  hackney  coaches  while  Dickens  was 
jolting  about  the  town. 

An  essayist,  on  the  other  hand,  needs  a  desk  and  a 
library  near  at  hand.  Because  an  essay  is  a  kind  of 
back-stove  cookery.  A  novel  needs  a  hot  fire,  so  to 
speak.  A  dozen  chapters  bubble  in  their  turn  above 
the  reddest  coals,  while  an  essay  simmers  over  a  little 


7^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

flame.  Pieces  of  this  and  that,  an  odd  carrot,  as  it 
were,  a  left  potato,  a  pithy  bone,  discarded  trifles,  are 
tossed  in  from  time  to  time  to  enrich  the  composition. 
Raw  paragraphs,  when  they  have  stewed  all  night,  at 
last  become  tender  to  the  fork.  An  essay,  therefore, 
cannot  be  written  hurriedly  on  the  knee.  Essayists, 
as  a  rule,  chew  their  pencils.  Their  desks  are  large 
and  are  always  in  disorder.  There  is  a  stack  of  books 
on  the  clock  shelf.  Others  are  pushed  under  the  bed. 
Matches,  pencils  and  bits  of  paper  mark  a  hundred 
references.  When  an  essayist  goes  out  from  his 
lodging  he  wears  the  kind  of  overcoat  that  holds  a 
book  in  every  pocket.  His  sagging  pockets  proclaim 
him.  He  is  a  bulging  person,  so  stuffed,  even  in  his 
dress,  with  the  ideas  of  others  that  his  own  leanness  is 
concealed.  An  essayist  keeps  a  notebook,  and  he 
thumbs  it  for  forgotten  thoughts.  Nobody  is  safe 
from  him,  for  he  steals  from  everyone  he  meets. 

An  essayist  is  not  a  mighty  traveler.  He  does  not 
run  to  grapple  with  a  roaring  lion.  He  desires  neither 
typhoon  nor  tempest.  He  is  content  in  his  harbor  to 
listen  to  the  storm  upon  the  rocks,  if  now  and  then,  by 
a  lucky  chance,  he  can  shelter  someone  from  the  wreck. 
His  hands  are  not  red  with  revolt  against  the  world. 
He  has  glanced  upon  the  thoughts  of  many  men ;  and 
as  opposite  philosophies  point  upon  the  truth,  he  is 
modest  with  his  own  and  tolerant  toward  the  opinion 
of  others.  He  looks  at  the  stars  and,  knowing  in  what 
a  dim  immensity  we  travel,  he  writes  of  little  things 
beyond  dispute.    There  are  enough  to  weep  upon  the 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  73 

shadows,  he,  like  a  dial,  marks  the  light.  The  small 
clatter  of  the  city  beneath  his  window,  the  cry  of 
peddlers,  children  chalking  their  games  upon  the  pave- 
ment, laundry  dancing  on  the  roofs  and  smoke  in  the 
winter's  wind — these  are  the  things  he  weaves  into  the 
fabric  of  his  thoughts.  Or  sheep  upon  the  hillside — 
if  his  window  is  so  lucky — or  a  sunny  meadow,  is  a 
profitable  speculation.  And  so,  while  the  novelist  is 
struggling  up  a  dizzy  mountain,  straining  through  the 
tempest  to  see  the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  behold  the 
essayist  snug  at  home,  content  with  little  sights.  He 
is  a  kind  of  poet — a  poet  whose  wings  are  clipped.  He 
flaps  to  no  great  heights  and  sees  neither  the  devil,  the 
seven  oceans  nor  the  twelve  apostles.  He  paints  old 
thoughts  in  shiny  varnish  and,  as  he  is  able,  he  mends 
small  habits  here  and  there.  And  therefore,  as  essay- 
ists stay  at  home,  they  are  precise — almost  amorous 
— ^in  the  posture  and  outlook  of  their  writing.  Leigh 
Hunt  wished  a  great  library  next  his  study.  "But  for 
the  study  itself,"  he  writes,  "give  me  a  small  snug 
place,  almost  entirely  walled  with  books.  There 
should  be  only  one  window  in  it  looking  upon  trees." 
How  the  precious  fellow  scorns  the  mountains  and  the 
ocean!  He  has  no  love,  it  seems,  for  typhoons  and 
roaring  lions.  "I  entrench  myself  in  my  books,"  he 
continues,  "equally  against  sorrow  and  the  weather. 
If  the  wind  comes  through  a  passage,  I  look  about  to 
see  how  I  can  fence  it  off  by  a  better  disposition  of  my 
movables."  And  by  movables  he  means  his  books. 
These  were  his  screen  against  cold  and  trouble.    But 


7Jp  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

Leigh  Hunt  had  been  in  prison  for  his  political  beliefs. 
He  had  grappled  with  his  lion.  So  perhaps,  after  all, 
my  argument  fails. 

Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  had  a  different  method  to  the 
same  purpose.  He  "was  so  anxious  to  fly  all  outward 
noise"  that  he  desired  a  library  apart  from  the  house. 
Maybe  he  had  had  some  experience  with  Annie  and 
her  clattering  broomstick.  "In  my  sleep,"  he  writes, 
"  'Where  dreams  are  multitude,'  I  sometimes  fancy 
that  one  day  I  shall  have  a  library  in  a  garden.  The 
phrase  seems  to  contain  the  whole  felicity  of  man.  .  .  . 
It  sounds  like  having  a  castle  in  Spain,  or  a  sheep- 
walk  in  Arcadia." 

Montaigne's  study  was  a  tower,  walled  all  about 
with  books.  At  his  table  in  the  midst  he  was  the 
general  focus  of  their  wisdom.  Hazlitt  wrote  much  at 
an  inn  at  Winter  slow,  with  Salisbury  Plain  around 
the  corner  of  his  view.  Now  and  then,  let  us  hope, 
when  the  London  coach  was  due,  he  received  in  his 
nostrils  a  savory  smell  from  the  kitchen  stove.  I 
taste  pepper,  sometimes,  and  sharp  sauces  in  his 
writing.  Stevenson,  except  for  ill-health  and  a  love 
of  the  South  Seas  (here  was  the  novelist  showing 
himself),  would  have  preferred  a  windy  perch  over- 
looking Edinburgh. 

It  does  seem  as  if  a  rather  richer  flavor  were  given 
to  a  book  by  knowing  the  circumstance  of  its  compo- 
sition. Consequently,  readers,  as  they  grow  older, 
turn  more  and  more  to  biography.  It  is  chiefly  not  the 
biographies  that  deal  with  great  crises  and  events,  but 


THE  POSTURE  OF  AUTHORS  75 

rather  the  biographies  that  are  concerned  with  small 
circumstance  and  agreeable  gossip,  that  attract  them 
most.  The  life  of  Gladstone,  with  its  hard  facts  of 
British  policy,  is  all  very  well ;  but  Mr.  Lucas's  life  of 
Lamb  is  better.  Who  would  willingly  neglect  the 
record  of  a  Thursday  night  at  Inner  Temple  Lane? 
In  these  pages  Talfourd,  Procter,  Hazlitt  and  Hunt 
have  written  their  memories  of  these  gatherings.  It 
was  to  his  partner  at  whist,  as  he  was  dealing,  that 
Lamb  once  said,  "If  dirt  was  trumps,  what  hands  you 
would  hold!"  Nights  of  wit  and  friendly  banter! 
Who  would  not  crowd  his  ears  with  gossip  of  that 
mirthful  company? — George  Dyer,  who  forgot  his 
boots  until  half  way  home  (the  dear  fellow  grew  for- 
getful as  the  smoking  jug  went  round) — Charles 
Lamb  feeling  the  stranger's  bumps.  Let  the  Empire 
totter !  Let  Napoleon  fall !  Africa  shall  be  parceled 
as  it  may.    Here  will  we  sit  until  the  cups  are  empty. 

Lately,  in  a  bookshop  at  the  foot  of  Cornhill,  I  fell 
in  with  an  old  scholar  who  told  me  that  it  was  his  prac- 
tice to  recommend  four  books,  which,  taken  end  on 
end,  furnished  the  general  history  of  English  letters 
from  the  Restoration  to  a  time  within  our  own 
memory.  These  books  were  "Pepys'  Diary,"  "Bos- 
well's  Johnson,"  the  "Diary  and  Letters  of  Madame 
d'Arblay"  and  the  "Diary  of  Crabb  Robinson." 

Beginning  almost  with  the  days  of  Cromwell  here  is 
a  chain  of  pleasant  gossip  across  the  space  of  more 
than  two  hundred  years.  Perhaps,  at  the  first,  there 
were   old   fellows   still   alive   who   could   remember 


76  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

Shakespeare — who  still  sat  in  chimney  corners  and 
babbled  through  their  toothless  gums  of  Blackfriars 
and  the  Globe.  And  at  the  end  we  find  a  reference  to 
President  Lincoln  and  the  freeing  of  the  slaves. 

Here  are  a  hundred  authors — perhaps  a  thousand — 
tucking  up  their  cuffs,  looking  out  from  their  familiar 
windows,  scribbling  their  large  or  trivial  masterpieces. 


After-Dinner  Pleasantries. 


THERE  is  a  shop  below  Fourteenth  Street, 
somewhat  remote  from  fashion,  that  sells 
nothing  but  tricks  for  amateur  and  parlor  use. 
It  is  a  region  of  cobblers,  tailors  and  small  grocers. 
Upstairs,  locksmiths  and  buttonhole  cutters  look 
through  dusty  windows  on  the  L,  which,  under  some 
dim  influence  of  the  moon,  tosses  past  the  buildings 
here  its  human  tide,  up  and  down,  night  and  morning. 
The  Trick  Shop  flatters  itself  on  its  signboard  that 
it  carries  the  largest  line  of  its  peculiar  trickery  on  the 
western  hemisphere — ^hinting  modestly  that  Baluchis- 
tan, perhaps,  or  Mesopotamia  (where  magic  might  be 
supposed  to  flourish)  may  have  an  equal  stock.  The 
shop  does  not  proclaim  its  greatness  to  the  casual 
glance.    Its  enormity  of  fraud  offers  no  hint  to  the 


78  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

unsuspecting  curb.  There  must  be  caverns  and 
cellars  at  the  rear — a  wealth  of  baffling  sham  un- 
rumored  to  the  street,  shelves  sagging  vrith  agreeable 
deception,  huge  bales  of  sleight-of-hand  and  musty 
barrels  of  old  magic. 

But  to  the  street  the  shop  reveals  no  more  than  a 
small  show-window,  of  a  kind  in  which  licorice-sticks 
and  all-day-suckers  might  feel  at  home.  It  is  a  win- 
dow at  which  children  might  stop  on  their  way  from 
school  and  meditate  their  choice,  fumbling  in  their 
pockets  for  their  wealth. 

I  have  stood  at  this  window  for  ten  minutes  to- 
gether. There  are  cards  for  fortune  tellers  and 
manuals  of  astrology,  decks  with  five  aces  and  marked 
backs,  and  trick  hats  and  boxes  with  false  bottoms. 
There  are  iron  cigars  to  be  offered  to  a  friend,  and 
bleeding  fingers,  and  a  device  that  makes  a  noise  like 
blowing  the  nose,  "only  much  louder."  Books  of 
magic  are  displayed,  and  conjurers'  outfits — shell 
games  and  disappearing  rabbits.  There  is  a  line  of 
dribble-glasses — a  humorous  contrivance  with  little 
holes  under  the  brim  for  spilling  water  down  the  front 
of  an  unwary  guest.  This,  it  is  asserted,  breaks  the 
social  ice  and  makes  a  timid  stranger  feel  at  home. 
And  there  are  puzzle  pictures,  beards  for  villains  and 
comic  masks — Satan  himself,  and  other  painted  faces 
for  Hallowe'en. 

Some  persons,  of  course,  can  perform  their  parlor 
tricks  without  this  machinery  and  appliance.  I  know  a 
gifted  fellow  who  can  put  on  the  expression  of  an 


AFTER-DINNER  PLEASANTRIES  79 

idiot.  Or  he  wrinkles  his  face  into  the  semblance  of 
eighty  years,  shakes  with  palsy  and  asks  his  tired  wife 
if  she  will  love  him  when  he's  old.  Again  he  puts  a 
coffee  cup  under  the  shoulder  of  his  coat  and  plays 
the  humpback.  On  a  special  occasion  he  mounts  a 
table — or  two  kitchen  chairs  become  his  stage — and 
recites  Richard  and  the  winter  of  his  discontent.  He 
needs  only  a  pillow  to  smother  Desdemona.  And  then 
he  opens  an  imaginary  bottle — the  popping  of  the 
cork,  the  fizzing,  the  gurgle  when  it  pours.  Some- 
times he  is  a  squealing  pig  caught  under  a  fence,  and 
sometimes  two  steamboats  signaling  with  their 
whistles  in  a  fog. 

I  know  a  young  woman — of  the  newer  sort — ^who 
appears  to  swallow  a,  lighted  cigarette,  with  smoke 
coming  from  her  ears.  This  was  once  a  man's  trick, 
but  the  progress  of  the  weaker  sex  has  shifted  it.  On 
request,  she  is  a  nervous  lady  with  a  fear  of  monkeys, 
taking  five  children  to  the  circus.  She  is  Camille  on 
her  deathbed.  I  know  a  man,  too,  who  can  give  the 
Rebel  yell  and  stick  a  needle,  full  length,  into  his  leg. 
The  pulpy  part  above  his  knee  seems  to  make  an 
excellent  pincushion.  And  then  there  is  the  old  loco- 
motive starting  on  a  slippery  grade  (for  beginners  in 
entertainment),  the  hand-organ  man  and  his  infested 
monkey  (a  duet),  the  chicken  that  is  chased  around 
the  barnyard,  Hamlet  with  the  broken  pallet  (this  is 
side-splitting  in  any  company)  and  Moriarty  on  the 
telephone.    I  suppose  our  best  vaudeville  performers 


80  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

were  once  amateurs  themselves  around  the  parlor 
lamp. 

And  there  is  Jones,  too,  who  plays  the  piano. 
Jones,  when  he  is  asked,  sits  at  the  keyboard  and 
fingers  little  runs  and  chords.  He  seems  to  be  think- 
ing which  of  a  hundred  pieces  he  will  play.  "What 
will  you  have?"  he  asks.  And  a  fat  man  wants 
"William  Tell,"  and  a  lady  with  a  powdered  nose  asks 
for  "Bubbles."  But  Jones  ignores  both  and  says, 
"Here's  a  little  thing  of  Schumann.  It's  a  charming 
bit."  On  the  other  hand,  when  Brown  is  asked  to 
sing,  it  is  generally  too  soon  after  dinner.  Brown, 
evidently,  takes  his  food  through  his  windpipe,  and 
it  is,  so  to  speak,  a  one-way  street.  He  can  hardly 
permit  the  ascending  "Siegfried"  to  squeeze  past  the 
cheese  and  crackers  that  still  block  the  crowded 
passage. 

There  is  not  a  college  dinner  without  the  mockery  of 
an  eccentric  professor,  A  wag  will  catch  the  pointing 
of  his  finger,  his  favorite  phrase.  Is  there  a  lawyers' 
dinner  without  its  imitation  of  Harry  Lauder?  Isn't 
there  always  someone  who  wants  to  sing  "It's  Nice  to 
Get  Up  in  the  Mornin',"  and  trot  up  and  down  with 
twinkling  legs?  Plumbers  on  their  lodge  nights,  I 
am  told,  have  their  very  own  Charlie  Chaplin.  And 
I  suppose  that  the  soda  clerks'  union — the  dear  crea- 
tures with  their  gum — ^has  its  local  Mary  Pickford, 
ready  with  a  scene  from  Polly  anna.  What  jolly 
dinners  dentists  must  have,  telling  one  another  in 
dialect  how  old  Mrs.  Finnigan  had  her  molars  out! 


AFTER-DINNER  PLEASANTRIES  81 

Forceps  and  burrs  are  their  unwearied  jest  across  the 
years.  When  they  are  together  and  the  doors  are 
closed,  how  they  must  frolic  with  our  weakness ! 

And  undertakers!  Even  they,  I  am  informed, 
throw  off  their  solemn  countenance  when  they  gather 
in  convention.  Their  carnation  and  mournful  smile 
are  gone — that  sober  gesture  that  waves  the  chilly 
relations  to  the  sitting-room.  But  I  wonder  whether 
their  dismal  shop  doesn't  cling  always  just  a  bit  to 
their  mirth  and  songs.  That  poor  duffer  in  the  poem 
who  asked  to  be  laid  low,  wrapped  in  his  tarpaulin 
jacket — surely,  undertakers  never  sing  of  him.  They 
must  look  at  him  with  disfavor  for  his  cheap  proposal. 
He  should  have  roused  for  a  moment  at  the  end,  with 
a  request  for  black  broadcloth  and  silver  handles. 

I  once  sat  with  an  undertaker  at  a  tragedy.  He  was 
of  a  lively  sympathy  in  the  earlier  parts  and  seemed 
hopeful  that  the  hero  would  come  through  alive.  But 
in  the  fifth  act,  when  the  clanking  army  was  defeated 
in  the  wings  and  Brutus  had  fallen  on  his  sword, 
then,  unmistakably  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  peculiar 
viewpoint  of  his  profession.  In  fancy  he  sat  already 
in  the  back  parlor  with  the  grieving  Mrs.  Brutus, 
arranging  for  the  music. 

To  undertakers,  Csesar  is  always  dead  and  turned 
to  clay.  Falstaff  is  just  a  fat  old  gentleman  who 
drank  too  much  sack,  a'  babbled  of  green  fields  and 
then  needed  professional  attention.  Perhaps  at  the 
very  pitch  of  their  meetings  when  the  merry  glasses 
have  been  three  times  filled,  they  pledge  one  another  in 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


what  they  are  pleased  to  call  the  embalmers'  fluid. 
This  jest  grows  rosier  with  the  years.  For  these  many 
centuries  at  their  banquets  they  have  sung  that  it  was  a 
cough  that  carried  him  off,  that  it  was  a  coffin — Now 
then,  gentlemen!  All  together  for  the  chorus! — ^that 
it  was  a  coffin  they  carried  him  off  in. 

I  dined  lately  with  a  man  who  could  look  like  a 
weasel.  When  this  was  applauded,  he  made  a  face 
like  the  Dude  of  Palmer  Cox's  Brownies.  Even 
Susan,  the  waitress,  who  knows  her  place  and  takes  a 
jest  soberly,  broke  down  at  the  pantry  door.  We 
could  hear  her  dishes  rattling  in  convulsions  in  the 
sink.  And  then  our  host  played  the  insect  with  his 
fingers  on  the  tablecloth,  smelling  a  spot  of  careless 
gravy  from  the  roast  with  his  long  thin  middle  finger. 
He  caught  the  habit  that  insects  have  of  waving  their 
forward  legs. 

I  still  recall  an  uncle  who  could  wiggle  his  ears. 
He  did  it  every  Christmas  and  Thanksgiving  DaJ^ 
It  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  regular  program  as  the 
turkey  and  the  cranberries.  It  was  a  feature  of  his 
engaging  foolery  to  pretend  that  the  wiggle  was  pro- 
duced by  rubbing  the  stomach,  and  a  circle  of  us 
youngsters  sat  around  him,  rubbing  our  expectant 
stomachs,  waiting  for  the  miracle.  A  cousin  brought 
a  guitar  and  played  the  "Spanish  Fandango"  while 
we  sat  around  the  fire,  sleepy  after  dinner.  And  there 
was  a  maiden  aunt  with  thin  blue  fingers,  who  played 
waltzes  while  we  danced,  and  she  nodded  and  slept  to 
the  drowsy  sound  of  her  own  music. 


AFTER-DINNER  PLEASANTRIES  83 

Of  my  own  after-dinner  pleasantries  I  am  modest. 
I  have  only  one  trick.  Two.  I  can  recite  the  fur- 
bearing  animals  of  North  America — ^the  bison,  the 
bear,  the  wolf,  the  seal,  and  sixteen  others — and  I  can 
go  downstairs  behind  the  couch  for  the  cider.  This 
last  requires  little  skill.  As  the  books  of  magic  say, 
it  is  an  easy  and  baffling  trick.  With  every  step  you 
crook  your  legs  a  little  more,  until  finally  you  are  on 
your  knees,  hunched  together,  and  your  head  has 
disappeared  from  view.  You  reverse  the  business 
coming  up,  with  tray  and  glasses. 

But  these  are  my  only  tricks.  There  is  a  Brahms 
waltz  that  I  once  had  hopes  of,  but  it  has  a  hard  run 
on  the  second  page.  I  can  never  get  my  thumb  under 
in  time  to  make  connections.  My  best  voice,  too, 
covers  only  five  notes.  You  cannot  do  much  for  the 
neighbors  with  that  cramped  kind  of  range.  "A 
Tailor  There  Sat  on  His  Window  Ledge"  is  one  of 
the  few  tunes  that  fall  inside  my  poverty.  He  calls  to 
his  wife,  you  may  remember,  to  bring  him  his  old 
cross-bow,  and  there  is  a  great  Zum!  Zum!  up  and 
down  in  the  bass  until  ready,  before  the  chorus  starts. 
On  a  foggy  morning  I  have  quite  a  formidable  voice 
for  those  Zums.  But  after-dinner  pleasantries  are 
only  good  at  night  and  then  my  bass  is  thin.  "A 
Sailor's  Life,  Yo,  Ho!"  is  a  very  good  tune  but  it 
goes  up  to  D,  and  I  can  sing  it  only  when  I  am  reck- 
less of  circumstance,  or  when  I  am  taking  ashes  from 
the  furnace.  I  know  a  lady  who  sings  only  at  her 
sewing-machine.    She  finds  a  stirring  accompaniment 


84-  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

in  the  whirling  of  the  wheel.  Others  sing  best  in  tiled 
bathrooms.  Sitting  in  warm  and  soapy  water  their 
voices  swell  to  Caruso's.  Laundresses,  I  have  noticed, 
are  in  lustiest  voice  at  their  tubs,  where  their  arms 
keep  a  vigorous  rhythm  on  the  scrubbing-board.  But 
I  choose  ashes.  I  am  little  short  of  a  Valkyr,  despite 
my  sex,  when  I  rattle  the  furnace  grate. 

With  hymns  I  can  make  quite  a  showing  in  church 
if  the  bass  part  keeps  to  a  couple  of  notes.  I  pound 
along  melodiously  on  some  convenient  low  note  and 
slide  up  now  and  then,  by  a  happy  instinct,  when  the 
tune  seems  to  require  it.  The  dear  little  lady,  who 
sits  in  front  of  me,  turns  what  I  am  pleased  to  think 
is  an  appreciative  ear,  and  now  and  then,  for  my  sup- 
port, she  throws  in  a  pretty  treble.  But  I  have  no 
tolerance  with  a  bass  part  that  undertakes  a  flourish 
and  climbs  up  behind  the  tenor.  This  is  mere  egotism 
and  a  desire  to  shine.  "Art  thou  there,  true-penny? 
You  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellarage?"  That  is  the 
proper  bass. 

Dear  me!  Now  that  I  recall  it,  we  have  guests — 
guests  tonight  for  dinner.  Will  I  be  asked  to  sing? 
Am  I  in  voice?  I  tum-a-lum  a  little,  up  and  down,  for 
experiment.  The  roar  of  the  subway  drowns  this 
from  my  neighbors,  but  by  holding  my  hand  over  my 
mouth  I  can  hear  it.  Is  my  low  F  in  order?  No — 
undeniably,  it  is  not.  Thin.  And  squeaky.  The 
Zums  would  never  do.  And  that  fast  run  in  Brahms? 
Can  I  slip  through  it?  Or  will  my  thumb,  as  usual, 
catch  and  stall?    Have  my  guests  seen  me  go  down- 


AFTER-DINNER  PLEASANTRIES  85 

stairs  behind  the  couch  for  the  cider?  Have  they 
heard  the  fur-bearing  animals — ^the  bison,  the  bear, 
the  wolf,  the  seal,  the  beaver,  the  otter,  the  fox  and 
raccoon? 

Perhaps — ^perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  stop  at  the 
Trick  Shop  and  buy  a  dribble-glass  and  a  long  black 
beard  to  amuse  my  guests. 


Little  Candles. 

HIGH  conceit  of  one's  self  and  a  sureness  of 
one's  opinion  are  based  so  insecurely  in  ex- 
perience that  one  is  perplexed  how  their 
slight  structure  stands.  One  marvels  why  these  em- 
phatic builders  trust  again  their  glittering  towers. 
Surely  anyone  who  looks  into  himself  and  sees  its  void 
or  malformation  ought  by  rights  to  shrink  from  adula- 
tion of  self,  and  his  own  opinion  should  appear  to  him 
merely  as  one  candle  among  a  thousand. 

And  yet  this  conceit  of  self  outlasts  innumerable 
failures,  and  any  new  pinnacle  that  is  set  up,  neglect- 
ing the  broken  rubble  on  the  ground  and  all  the  wreck- 
age at  the  base,  boasts  again  of  its  sure  communion 
with  the  stars.  A  man,  let  us  say,  has  gone  headlong 
from  one  formula  of  belief  into  another.  In  each,  for 
a  time,  he  burns  with  a  hot  conviction.  Then  his  faith 
cools.    His  god  no  longer  nods.    But  just  when  you 


LITTLE  CANDLES  87 

think  that  failure  must  have  brought  hira  modesty, 
again  he  amazes  you  with  the  golden  prospect  of  a 
new  adventure.  He  has  climbed  in  his  life  a  hundred 
hillocks,  thinking  each  to  be  a  mountain.  He  has  jour- 
neyed on  many  paths,  but  always  has  fallen  in  a  bog. 
Conceit  is  a  thin  bubble  in  the  wind,  it  is  an  empty 
froth  and  breath,  yet,  hammered  into  ship-plates,  it 
defies  the  U-boat. 

On  every  sidewalk,  also,  we  see  some  fine  fellow, 
dressed  and  curled  to  his  satisfaction,  parading  in  the 
sun.  An  accident  of  wealth  or  birth  has  marked  him 
from  the  crowd.  He  has  decked  his  outer  walls  in 
gaudy  color,  but  is  bare  within.  He  is  a  cypher,  but 
golden  circumstance,  like  a  figure  in  the  million 
column,  gives  him  substance.  Yet  the  void  cries  out 
on  all  matters  in  dispute  with  firm  conviction. 

But  this  cypher  need  not  dress  in  purple.  He  is 
shabby,  let  us  say,  and  pinched  with  poverty.  Whose 
fault?  Who  knows?  But  does  misfortune  in  itself 
give  wisdom?  He  is  poor.  Therefore  he  decides  that 
the  world  is  sick  with  pestilence,  and  accordingly  he 
proclaims  himself  a  doctor.  Or  perhaps  he  sits  at 
ease  in  middle  circumstance.  He  judges  that  his  is  an 
open  mind  because  he  lets  a  harsh  opinion  blow  upon 
his  ignorance  until  it  flames  with  hatred.  He  sets  up 
to  be  a  thinker,  and  he  is  resolved  to  shatter  the  foun- 
dations of  a  thousand  years. 

The  outer  darkness  stretches  to  such  a  giddy  dis- 
tance !  And  these  thousand  candles  of  belief,  flicker- 
ing in  the  night,  are  so  insufficient  even  in  their  aggre- 


88  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


gate!  Shall  a  candle  wink  at  flaming  Jupiter  as  an 
equal?  By  what  persuasion  is  one's  own  tiny  wick, 
shielded  in  the  fingers  from  misadventure,  the  greatest 
light? 

Who  is  there  who  has  read  more  than  a  single  chap- 
ter in  the  book  of  life?  Most  of  us  have  faltered 
through  scarcely  a  dozen  paragraphs,  yet  we  scribble 
our  sure  opinion  in  the  margin.  We  hear  a  trifling 
pebble  fall  in  a  muddy  pool,  and  we  think  that  we  have 
listened  to  the  pounding  of  the  sea.  We  hold  up  our 
little  candle  and  we  consider  that  its  light  dispels  the 
general  night. 

But  it  has  happened  once  in  a  while  that  someone 
really  strikes  a  larger  light  and  offers  it  to  many 
travelers  for  their  safety.  He  holds  his  candle  above 
his  head  for  the  general  comfort.  And  to  it  there  rush 
the  multitude  of  those  whose  candles  have  been  gutted. 
They  relight  their  wicks,  and  go  their  way  with  a  song 
and  cry,  to  announce  their  brotherhood.  If  they  see  a 
stranger  off  the  path,  they  call  to  him  to  join  their 
band.    And  they  draw  him  from  the  mire. 

And  sometimes  this  company  respects  the  other 
candles  that  survive  the  wind.  They  confess  with 
good  temper  that  their  glare,  also,  is  sufficient;  that 
there  is,  indeed,  more  than  one  path  across  the  night. 
But  sometimes  in  their  intensity — in  their  sureness  of 
exclusive  salvation — they  fall  to  bickering.  One  band 
of  converts  elbows  another.  There  is  a  mutual  lifting 
of  the  nose  in  scorn,  an  amused  contempt,  or  they  come 
to  blows  and  all  candles  are  extinguished.    And  some- 


LITTLE  CANDLES  89 

times,  with  candles  out,  they  travel  onward,  still  telling 
one  another  of  their  band  how  the  darkness  flees 
before  them. 

We  live  in  a  world  of  storm,  of  hatred,  of  blind  con- 
ceit, of  shrill  and  intolerant  opinion.  The  past  is 
worshiped.  The  past  is  scorned.  Some  wish  only  to 
kiss  the  great  toe  of  old  convention.  Others  shout  that 
we  must  run  bandaged  in  the  dark,  if  we  would  prove 
our  faith  in  God  and  man.  It  is  the  best  of  times,  and 
the  worst  of  times.  It  is  the  dawn.  We  grope  toward 
midnight.  Our  fathers  were  saints  in  judgment.  Our 
fathers  were  fools  and  rogues.  Let's  hold  minutely  to 
the  past!  Any  change  is  sacrilege.  Let's  rip  it  up! 
Let's  destroy  it  altogether! 

We'll  kill  him  and  stamp  on  him:  He's  a  Montague. 
We'll  draw  and  quarter  him:  He's  a  Capulet.  He's 
a  radical :  He  must  be  hanged.  A  conservative :  His 
head  shall  decorate  our  pike. 

A  plague  on  both  your  houses ! 

Panaceas  are  hawked  among  us,  each  with  a  magic 
to  cure  our  ills.  Universal  suffrage  is  a  leap  to  per- 
fection. Tax  reform  will  bring  the  golden  age.  With 
capital  and  interest  smashed,  we  shall  live  in  heaven. 
The  soviet,  the  recall  from  office,  the  six-hour  day,  the 
demands  of  labor,  mark  the  better  path.  The  greater 
clamor  of  the  crowd  is  the  guide  to  wisdom.  Men  with 
black  beards  and  ladies  with  cigarettes  say  that 
machine-guns  and  fire  and  death  are  pills  that  are 
potent  for  our  good.  We  live  in  a  welter  of  quarrel 
and  disagreement.    One  pictures  a  mighty  shelf  with 


90  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

bottles,  and  doctors  running  to  and  fro.  The  poor 
world  is  on  its  back,  opening  its  mouth  to  every  spoon. 
By  the  hubbub  in  the  pantry — the  yells  and  scuffling 
at  the  sink — we  know  that  drastic  and  contrary  cures 
are  striving  for  the  mastery. 

There  was  a  time  when  beacons  burned  on  the  hills 
to  be  our  guidance.  The  flames  were  fed  and  moulded 
by  the  experience  of  the  centuries.  Men  might  differ 
on  the  path — might  even  scramble  up  a  dozen  different 
slopes — but  the  hill-top  was  beyond  dispute. 

But  now  the  great  fires  smoulder.  The  Constitu- 
tion, it  is  said, — pecked  at  since  the  first, — must  now 
be  carted  off  and  sold  as  junk.  Art  has  torn  down 
its  older  standards.  The  colors  of  Titian  are  in  the 
dust.    Poets  no  longer  bend  the  knee  to  Shakespeare. 

Conceit  is  a  pilot  who  scorns  the  harbor  lights — 

Modesty  was  once  a  virtue.  Patience,  diligence, 
thrift,  humility,  charity — ^who  pays  now  a  tribute  to 
them?  Charity  is  only  a  sop,  it  seems,  that  is  thrown 
in  fright  to  the  swift  wolves  of  revolution.  Humil- 
ity is  now  a  weakness.  Diligence  is  despised.  Thrift 
is  the  advice  of  cowards.  Who  now  cares  for  the 
lessons  that  experience  and  tested  fact  once  taught? 
Ignorance  sits  now  in  the  highest  seat  and  gives  its 
orders,  and  the  clamor  of  the  crowd  is  its  high 
authority.  ,  . 

And  what  has  become  of  modesty?  A  maid  once 
was  prodigal  if  she  unmasked  her  beauty  to  the  moon. 
Morality?  Let's  all  laugh  together.  It's  a  quaint  old 
word. 


LITTLE  CANDLES  91 

Tolerance  is  the  last  study  in  the  school  of  wisdom. 
Lord!  Lord!  Tonight  let  my  prayer  be  that  I  may 
know  that  my  own  opinion  is  but  a  candle  in  the  wind! 


A  Visit  to  a  Poet. 

NOT  long  ago  I  accepted  the  invitation  of  a 
young  poet  to  visit  him  at  his  lodging.  As 
my  life  has  fallen  chiefly  among  merchants, 
lawyers  and  other  practical  folk,  I  went  with  much 
curiosity. 

,  My  poet,  I  must  confess,  is  not  entirely  famous. 
His  verses  have  appeared  in  several  of  the  less  known 
papers,  and  a  judicious  printer  has  even  offered  to 
gather  them  into  a  modest  sheaf.  There  are,  however, 
certain  vile  details  of  expense  that  hold  up  the  project. 
The  printer,  although  he  confesses  their  merit,  feels 
that  the  poet  should  bear  the  cost. 

His  verses  are  of  the  newer  sort.  When  read  aloud 
they  sound  pleasantly  in  the  ear,  but  I  sometimes  miss 
the  meaning.  I  once  pronounced  an  intimate  soul- 
study  to  be  a  jolly  description  of  a  rainy  night.  This 
was  my  stupidity.  I  could  see  a  soul  quite  plainly 
when  it  was  pointed  out.  It  was  like  looking  at  the 
moon.  You  get  what  you  look  for — a  man  or  a  woman 
or  a  kind  of  map  of  Asia.  In  poetry  of  this  sort  I 
need  a  hint  or  two  to  start  me  right.  But  when  my 
nose  has  been  rubbed,  so  to  speak,  against  the  anise- 
bag,  I  am  a  very  hound  upon  the  scent. 

The  street  where  my  friend  lives  is  just  north  of 
Greenwich  Village,  and  it  still  shows  a  remnant  of 
more  aristocratic  days.    Behind  its  shabby  fronts  are 


A  VISIT  TO  A  POET  93 

long  drawing-rooms  with  tarnished  glass  chandeliers 
and  frescoed  ceilings  and  gaunt  windows  with  inside 
blinds.  Plaster  cornices  still  gather  the  dust  of  years. 
There  are  heavy  stairways  with  black  walnut  rails. 
Marble  Lincolns  still  liberate  the  slaves  in  niches  of 
the  hallway.  Bronze  Ladies  of  the  Lake  await  their 
tardy  lovers.  Diana  runs  with  her  hunting  dogs  upon 
the  newel  post.  In  these  houses  lived  the  heroines  of 
sixty  years  ago,  who  shopped  for  crinoline  and  spent 
their  mornings  at  Stewart's  to  match  a  Godey  pattern. 
They  drove  of  an  afternoon  with  gay  silk  parasols  to 
the  Crystal  Palace  on  Forty-second  Street.  In  short, 
they  were  our  despised  Victorians.  With  our  advance- 
ment we  have  made  the  world  so  much  better  since. 

I  pressed  an  electric  button.  Then,  as  the  door 
clicked,  I  sprang  against  it.  These  patent  catches 
throw  me  into  a  momentary  panic.  I  feel  like  one  of 
the  foolish  virgins  with  untrimmed  lamp,  just  about  to 
be  caught  outside — but  perhaps  I  confuse  the  legend. 
Inside,  there  was  a  bare  hallway,  with  a  series  of  stair- 
ways rising  in  the  gloom — round  and  round,  like  the 
frightful  staircase  of  the  Opium  Eater.  At  the  top 
of  the  stairs  a  black  disk  hung  over  the  rail — probably 
a  head. 

"Hello,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  it's  you.  Come  up!"  And  the  poet  came 
down  to  meet  me,  with  slippers  slapping  at  the  heels. 

There  was  a  villainous  smell  on  the  stairs.  "Some- 
thing burning?"  I  asked. 


9J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

At  first  the  poet  didn't  smell  it.  "Oh,  that  smell!" 
he  said  at  last.    "That's  the  embalmer." 

"The  embalmer?" 

We  were  opposite  a  heavy  door  on  the  second  floor. 
He  pointed  his  thmnb  at  it.  "There's  an  embalmer's 
school  inside." 

"Dear  me!"  I  said.  "Has  he  any — anything  to 
practice  on?" 

The  poet  pushed  the  door  open  a  crack.  It  was  very 
dark  inside.  It  smelled  like  Ptolemy  in  his  later  days. 
Or  perhaps  I  detected  Polonius,  found  at  last  beneath 
the  stairs. 

"Bless  me!"  I  asked,  "What  does  he  teach  in  his 
school?" 

"Embalming,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"It  never  occurred  to  me,"  I  confessed,  "that  under- 
takers had  to  learn.  I  thought  it  came  naturally. 
Ducks  to  water,  you  know.  They  look  as  if  they  could 
pick  up  a  thing  like  embalming  by  instinct.  I  don't 
suppose  you  knew  old  Mr.  Smith." 

"No." 

"He  wore  a  white  carnation  on  business  after- 
noons." 

We  rounded  a  turn  of  the  black  walnut  stair. 

"There!"  exclaimed  the  poet.  "That  is  the  office  of 
the  Shriek/' 

I  know  the  Shriek.  It  is  one  of  the  periodicals  of 
the  newer  art  that  does  not  descend  to  the  popular 
taste.  It  will  not  compromise  its  ideals.  It  prints 
pictures  of  men  and  women  with  hideous,  distorted 


A   VISIT  TO  A  POET  95 

bodies.  It  is  solving  sex.  Once  in  a  while  the  police 
know  what  it  is  talking  about,  and  then  they  rather 
stupidly  keep  it  out  of  the  mails  for  a  month  or  so. 

Now  I  had  intended  for  some  time  to  subscribe  to 
the  Shriek^  because  I  wished  to  see  my  friend's  verses 
as  they  appeared.  In  this  way  I  could  learn  what  the 
newer  art  was  doing,  and  could  brush  out  of  my  head 
the  cobwebs  of  convention.  Keats  and  Shelley  have 
been  thrown  into  the  discard.  We  have  come  a  long 
journey  from  the  older  poets. 

"I  would  like  to  subscribe,"  I  said. 

The  poet,  of  course,  was  pleased.  He  rapped  at  a 
door  marked  "Editor." 

A  young  woman's  head  in  a  mob-cap  came  into 
view.  She  wore  a  green  and  purple  smock,  and  a 
cigarette  hung  loosely  from  her  mouth.  She  looked 
at  me  at  first  as  if  I  were  an  old-fashioned  poem  or  a 
bundle  of  modest  drawings,  but  cheered  when  I  told 
my  errand.  There  was  a  cup  of  steaming  soup  on  an 
alcohol  burner,  and  half  a  loaf  of  bread.  On  a  string 
across  the  window  handkerchiefs  and  stockings  were 
hung  to  dry.    A  desk  was  littered  with  papers. 

I  paid  my  money  and  was  enrolled.  I  was  given  a 
current  number  of  the  Shriek,  and  was  told  not  to  miss 
a  poem  by  Sillivitch. 

"Sillivitch?"  I  asked. 

"Sillivitch,"  the  lady  answered.  "Our  greatest  poet 
— maybe  the  greatest  of  all  time.  Writes  only  for  the 
Shriek.    Wonderful  I    Realistic!" 


96  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

"Snug  little  office,"  I  said  to  the  poet,  when  we  were 
on  the  stairs.    "She  lives  in  there,  too?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "Smart  girl,  that.  Never  com- 
promises. Wants  reality  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
You  must  read  Sillivitch.  Amazing!  Doesn't  seem 
to  mean  anything  at  first.  But  then  you  get  it  in  a 
flash." 

We  had  now  come  to  the  top  of  the  building. 

"There  isn't  much  smell  up  here,"  I  said. 

"You  don't  mind  the  smell.  You  come  to  like  it," 
he  replied.    "It's  bracing." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs,  a  hallway  led  to  rooms  both 
front  and  back.  The  ceiUng  of  these  rooms,  low  even 
in  the  middle,  sloped  to  windows  of  half  height  in 
dormers.  The  poet  waved  his  hand.  "I  have  been 
living  in  the  front  room,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  adding 
this  room  behind  for  a  study." 

We  entered  the  study.  A  man  was  mopping  up  the 
floor.  Evidently  the  room  had  not  been  lived  in  for 
years,  for  the  dirt  was  caked  to  a  half  inch.  A  general 
wreckage  of  furniture — a  chair,  a  table  with  marble 
top,  a  carved  sideboard  with  walnut  dingles,  a  wooden 
bed  with  massive  headboard,  a  mattress  and  a  broken 
pitcher — ^had  been  swept  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 
There  was  also  a  pile  of  old  embalmer's  journals,  and 
a  great  carton  that  seemed  to  contain  tubes  of  tooth- 
paste. 

"You  see,"  said  the  poet,  "I  have  been  living  in  the 
other  room.     This  used  to  be  a  storage — years  ago, 


A  VISIT  TO  A  POET  97 

for  the  family  that  once  lived  here,  and  more  recently 
for  the  embalmer." 

"Storage!"  I  exclaimed.  "You  don't  suppose  that 
they  kept  any — ?" 

"No." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "it's  a  snug  little  place." 

I  bent  over  and  picked  up  one  of  the  embalmer's 
journals.  On  the  cover  there  was  a  picture  of  a  little 
boy  in  a  night-gown,  saying  his  prayer  to  his  mother. 
The  prayer  was  printed  underneath.  "And,  mama," 
it  read,  "have  God  make  me  a  good  boy,  and  when  I 
grow  up  let  me  help  papa  in  his  business,  and  never 
use  anything  but  Twirpp's  Old  Reliable  Embalming 
Fluid,  the  kind  that  papa  has  always  used,  and 
grandpa  before  him." 

Now,  Charles  Lamb,  I  recall,  once  confessed  that 
he  was  moved  to  enthusiasm  by  an  undertaker's  adver- 
tisement. "Methinks,"  he  writes,  "I  could  be  willing 
to  die,  in  death  to  be  so  attended.  The  two  rows  all 
round  close-drove  best  black  japanned  nails, — ^how 
feelingly  do  they  invite,  and  almost  irresistibly  per- 
suade us  to  come  and  be  fastened  down."  But  the 
journal  did  not  stir  me  to  this  high  emotion. 

I  crossed  the  room  and  stooped  to  look  out  of  the 
dormer  window — into  a  shallow  yard  where  an  aban- 
doned tin  bath-tub  and  other  unprized  valuables  were 
kept.  A  shabby  tree  acknowledged  that  it  had  lost 
its  way,  but  didn't  know  what  to  do  about  it.  It  had 
its  elbow  on  the  fence  and  seemed  to  be  in  thought. 
A  wash-stand  lay  on  its  side,  as  if  it  snapped  its  fingers 


98  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

forever  at  soap  and  towels.  Beyond  was  a  tall  build- 
ing, with  long  tables  and  rows  of  girls  working. 

One  of  the  girls  desisted  for  a  moment  from  her 
feathers  with  which  she  was  making  hats,  and  stuck 
out  her  tongue  at  me  in  a  coquettish  way.  I  returned 
her  salute.  She  laughed  and  tossed  her  head  and  went 
back  to  her  feathers. 

The  young  man  who  had  been  mopping  up  the  floor 
went  out  for  fresh  water. 

"Who  is  that  feUow?"  I  asked. 

"He  works  downstairs." 

"For  the  Shriek?" 

"For  the  embalmer.    He's  an  apprentice." 

"I  would  like  to  meet  him." 

Presently  I  did  meet  him. 

"What  have  you  there?"  I  asked.  He  was  folding 
up  a  great  canvas  bag  of  curious  pattern. 

"It's  when  you  are  shipped  away — to  Texas  or 
somewhere.  This  is  a  little  one.  You'd  need — "  he 
appraised  me  from  head  to  foot — "you'd  need  a  num- 
ber ten." 

He  desisted  from  detail.  He  shifted  to  the  story  of 
his  life.  Since  he  had  been  a  child  he  had  wished  to 
be  an  undertaker. 

Now  I  had  myself  once  known  an  undertaker,  and 
I  had  known  his  son.  The  son  went  to  Munich  to 
study  for  Grand  Opera.  I  crossed  on  the  steamer 
with  him.  He  sang  in  the  ship's  concert,  "Oh,  That 
We  Two  Were  Maying."  It  was  pitched  for  high 
tenor,  so  he  sang  it  an  octave  low,  and  was  quite 


A  VISIT  TO  A  POET  99 

gloomy  about  it.  In  the  last  verse  he  expressed  a 
desire  to  lie  at  rest  beneath  the  churchyard  sod.  The 
boat  was  rolling  and  I  went  out  to  get  the  air.  And 
then  I  did  not  see  him  for  several  years.  We  met  at 
a  funeral.  He  wore  a  long  black  coat  and  a  white 
carnation.  He  smiled  at  me  with  a  gentle,  mournful 
smile  and  waved  me  to  a  seat.  He  was  Tristan  no 
longer.  Valhalla  no  more  echoed  to  his  voice.  He 
had  succeeded  to  his  father's  business. 

Here  the  poet  interposed.  "The  Countess  came  to 
see  me  yesterday." 

"Mercy,"  I  said,  "what  countess?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  know  her  work?  She's  a  poet  and 
she  writes  for  the  people  downstairs.  She's  the 
Countess  Sillivitch." 

"Sillivitch!"  I  answered,  "of  course  I  know  her. 
She  is  the  greatest  poet,  maybe,  of  all  time." 

"No  doubt  about  it,"  said  the  poet  excitedly,  "and 
there's  a  poem  of  hers  in  this  number.  She  writes  in 
italics  when  she  wants  you  to  yell  it.  And  when  she 
puts  it  in  capitals,  my  God !  you  could  hear  her  to  the 
elevated.    It's  ripping  stuff," 

"Dear  me,"  I  said,  "I  should  like  to  read  it. 
Awfully.    It  must  be  funny." 

"It  isn't  funny  at  all,"  the  poet  answered.  "It  isn't 
meant  to  be  funny.  Did  you  read  her  'Burning 
Kiss'?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  answered. 

The    poet    sighed.      "It's    wonderfully    realistic. 


100  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

There's  nothing  old-fashioned  about  that  poem.  The 
Countess  wears  painted  stockings." 

"Bless  me!"  I  cried. 

"Stalks  with  flowers.  She  comes  from  Bulgaria, 
or  Esthonia,  or  somewhere.  Has  a  husband  in  a 
castle.  Incompatible.  He  stifles  her.  Common.  In 
business.  Beer  spigots.  She  is  artistic.  Wants  to 
soar.  And  tragic.  You  remember  my  study  of  a 
soul?" 

"The  rainy  night?    Yes,  I  remember." 

"Well,  she's  the  one.  She  sat  on  the  floor  and  told 
me  her  troubles." 

"You  don't  suppose  that  I  could  meet  her,  do  you?" 
I  asked. 

The  poet  looked  at  me  with  withering  scorn.  "You 
wouldn't  like  her,"  he  said.  "She's  very  modern.  She 
says  very  startling  things.  You  have  to  be  in  the 
modern  spirit  to  follow  her.  And  sympathetic.  She 
doesn't  want  any  marriage  or  government  or  things 
like  that.  Just  truth  and  freedom.  It's  convention 
that  clips  our  wings." 

"Conventions  are  stupid  things,"  I  agreed. 

"And  the  past  isn't  any  good,  either,"  the  poet  said. 
"The  past  is  a  chain  upon  us.  It  keeps  us  off  the 
mountains." 

"Exactly,"  I  assented. 

"That's  what  the  Countess  thinks.  We  must  de- 
stroy the  past.  Everything.  Customs.  Art.  Gov- 
ernment. We  must  be  ready  for  the  coming  of  the 
dawn." 


A  VISIT  TO  A  POET  101 

"Naturally,"  I  said.  "Candles  trimmed,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  don't  suppose  that  I  could 
meet  the  Countess?  Well,  I'm  sorry.  What's  the  bit 
of  red  paper  on  the  wall?    Is  it  over  a  dirty  spot?" 

"It's  to  stir  up  my  ideas.  It's  gay  and  when  I  look 
at  it  I  think  of  something." 

"And  then  I  suppose  that  you  look  out  of  that  win- 
dow, against  that  brick  wall  and  those  windows 
opposite,  and  write  poems — a  sonnet  to  the  girl  who 
stuck  out  her  tongue  at  me." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Hot  in  summer  up  here?" 

"Yes." 

"And  cold  in  winter?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  suppose  that  you  get  some  ideas  out  of  that 
old  tin  bath-tub  and  those  ash-cans." 

"Well,  hardly." 

"And  you  look  at  the  moon  through  that  dirty 
skylight?'' 

"No!  There's  nothing  in  that  old  stuff.  Every- 
body's fed  up  on  the  moon." 

"It's  a  snug  place,"  I  said.    And  I  came  away. 

I  circled  the  stairs  into  the  denser  smell  which,  by 
this  time,  I  found  rather  agreeable.  The  embalmer's 
door  was  open.  In  the  gloom  inside  I  saw  the  appren- 
tice busied  in  some  dark  employment.  "I  got  some- 
thin'  to  show  you,"  he  called. 

"Tomorrow,"  I  answered. 

As  I  was  opening  the  street  door,  a  woman  came  up 


102  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  steps.  She  was  a  dark,  Bulgarian  sort  of  woman. 
Or  Esthonian,  perhaps.  I  held  back  the  door  to  let 
her  pass.  She  wore  long  ear-rings.  Her  skirt  was 
looped  high  in  scollops.  She  wore  sandals — and 
painted  stockings. 


Autumn  Days. 


IT  was  rather  a  disservice  when  the  poet  wrote 
that  the  melancholy  days  were  come.  His  folly 
is  inexpKcable.  If  he  had  sung  through  his  nose 
of  thaw  and  drizzle,  all  of  us  would  have  pitched  in 
to  help  him  in  his  dismal  chorus.  But  October  and 
November  are  brisk  and  cheerful  months. 

In  the  spring,  to  be  sure,  there  is  a  languid  sadness. 
Its  beauty  is  too  frail.  Its  flowerets  droop  upon  the 
plucking.  Its  warm  nights,  its  breeze  that  blows 
from  the  fragrant  hills,  warn  us  how  brief  is  the 
blossom  time.  In  August  the  year  slumbers.  Its 
sleepy  days  nod  across  the  heavy  orchards  and  the 
yellow  grain  fields.  Smoke  looks  out  from  chimneys, 
but  finds  no  wind  for  comrade.  For  a  penny  it  would 
stay  at  home  and  doze  upon  the  hearth,  to  await  a 
playmate  from  the  north.  The  birds  are  still.  Only 
the  insects  sing.  A  threshing-machine,  far  off,  sinks 
to  as  drowsy  a  melody  as  theirs,  like  a  company  of 
grasshoppers,  but  with  longer  beard  and  deeper 
voice.  The  streams  that  frolicked  to  nimble  tunes  in 
May  now  crawl  from  pool  to  pool.  The  very  shadows 
linger  under  cover.  They  crouch  close  beneath  shed 
and  tree,  and  scarcely  stir  a  finger  until  the  fiery  sun 
has  turned  its  back. 

September  rubs  its  eyes.  It  hears  autumn,  as  it 
were,  pounding  on  its  bedroom  door,  and  turns  for 


10 J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

another  wink  of  sleep.  But  October  is  awakened  by 
the  frost.  It  dresses  itself  in  gaudy  color.  It  flings 
a  scarlet  garment  on  the  woods  and  a  purple  scarf 
across  the  hills.  The  wind,  at  last,  like  a  merry  piper, 
cries  out  the  tune,  and  its  brisk  and  sunny  days  come 
dancing  from  the  north. 

Yesterday  was  a  holiday  and  I  went  walking  in  the 
woods.  Although  it  is  still  September  it  grows  late, 
and  there  is  already  a  touch  of  October  in  the  air. 
After  a  week  of  sultry  weather — a  tardy  remnant 
from  last  month — a  breeze  yesterday  sprang  out  of 
the  northwest.  Like  a  good  housewife  it  swept  the 
dusty  corners  of  the  world.  It  cleared  our  path 
across  the  heavens  and  raked  down  the  hot  cobwebs 
from  the  sky.  Clouds  had  yawned  in  idleness.  They 
had  sat  on  the  dull  circle  of  the  earth  like  fat  old  men 
with  drooping  chins,  but  yesterday  they  stirred  them- 
selves. The  wind  whipped  them  to  their  feet.  It  pur- 
sued them  and  plucked  at  their  frightened  skirts.  It 
is  thus,  after  the  sleepy  season,  that  the  wind  practices 
for  the  rough  and  tumble  of  November.  It  needs  but 
to  quicken  the  tempo  into  sixteenth  notes,  to  rouse  a 
wholesome  tempest. 

Who  could  be  melancholy  in  so  brisk  a  month?  The 
poet  should  hang  his  head  for  shame  at  uttering  such 
a  libel.  These  dazzling  days  could  hale  him  into  court. 
The  jury,  with  one  voice,  without  rising  from  its  box, 
would  hold  for  a  heavy  fine.  Apples  have  been 
gathered  in.  There  is  a  thirsty,  tipsy  smell  from  the 
cider  presses.     Hay  is  pitched  up  to  the  very  roof. 


AUTUMN  DAYS  ^05 


Bursting  granaries  show  their  golden  produce  at  the 
cracks.  The  yellow  stubble  of  the  fields  is  a  promise 
that  is  kept.  And  who  shall  say  that  there  is  any 
sadness  in  the  fallen  leaves?  They  are  a  gay  and 
sounding  carpet.  Who  dances  here  needs  no  bell 
upon  his  ankle,  and  no  fiddle  for  the  tune. 

And  sometimes  in  October  the  air  is  hazy  and  spiced 
with  smells.  Nature,  it  seems,  has  cooked  a  feast  in 
the  heat  of  summer,  and  now  its  viands  stand  out  to 
cool. 

November  lights  its  fires  and  brings  in  early 
candles.  This  is  the  season  when  chimneys  must  be 
tightened  for  the  tempest.  Their  mighty  throats  roar 
that  all  is  strong  aloft.  Dogs  now  leave  a  stranger  to 
go  his  way  in  peace,  and  they  bark  at  the  windy  moon. 
Windows  rattle,  but  not  with  sadness.  They  jest  and 
chatter  with  the  blast.  They  gossip  of  storms  on 
barren  mountains. 

Night,  for  so  many  months,  has  been  a  timid  crea- 
ture. It  has  hid  so  long  in  gloomy  cellars  while  the 
regal  sun  strutted  on  his  way.  But  now  night  and 
darkness  put  their  heads  together  for  his  overthrow. 
In  shadowy  garrets  they  mutter  their  discontent  and 
plan  rebellion.  They  snatch  the  fields  by  four  o'clock. 
By  five  they  have  restored  their  kingdom.  They  set 
the  stars  as  guardsmen  of  their  rule. 

Now  travelers  are  pelted  into  shelter.  Signboards 
creak.  The  wind  whistles  for  its  rowdy  company. 
Night,  the  monarch,  rides  upon  the  storm. 

A  match!    We'll  light  the  logs.    We'll  crack  nuts 


106  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

and  pass  the  cider.  How  now,  master  poet,  is  there  no 
thirsty  passage  in  your  throat?  I  offer  you  a  bowl  of 
milk  and  popcorn.  Must  you  brood  tonight  upon  the 
barren  fields — the  meadows  brown  and  sear?  Who 
cares  now  how  the  wind  grapples  with  the  chimneys  ? 
Here  is  snug  company,  warm  and  safe.  Here  are 
syrup  and  griddle-cakes.  Do  you  still  suck  your  mel- 
ancholy pen  when  such  a  feast  is  going  forward  ? 


On  Finding  a  Plot. 

A  YOUNG  author  has  confessed  to  me  that 
lately,  in  despair  at  hitting  on  a  plot,  he 
.  locked  himself  in  his  room  after  breakfast 
with  an  oath  that  he  would  not  leave  it  until  something 
was  contrived  and  under  way.  He  did  put  an  apple 
and  sandwich  prudently  at  the  back  of  his  desk,  but 
these,  he  swore,  like  the  locusts  and  wild  honey  in  the 
wilderness,  should  last  him  through  his  struggle.  By 
a  happy  afterthought  he  took  with  him  into  retire- 
ment a  volume  of  De  Maupassant.  Perhaps,  he  con- 
sidered, if  his  own  invention  lagged  and  the  hour  grew 
late,  he  might  shift  its  characters  into  new  positions. 
Rather  than  starve  till  dawn  he  could  dress  a  courte- 
zan in  honest  cloth,  or  tease  a  happy  wife  from  her 
household  in  the  text  to  a  mad  elopement.  Or  by 
jiggling  all  the  plots  together,  like  the  bits  of  glass  in 
a  kaleidoscope,  the  pieces  might  fall  into  strange  and 
startling  patterns. 

This  is  not  altogether  a  new  thought  with  him. 
While  sucking  at  his  pen  in  a  former  drouth  he  con- 
sidered whether  a  novel  might  not  be  made  by  com- 
bining the  characters  of  one  story  with  the  circum- 
stance of  another.  Let  us  suppose,  for  example,  that 
Carmen,  before  she  got  into  that  ugly  affair  with  the 
Toreador,  had  settled  down  in  Barchester  beneath  the 
towers.     Would  the  shadow  of  the  cloister,  do  you 


108  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

think,  have  cooled  her  southern  blood?  Would  she 
have  conformed  to  the  decent  gossip  of  the  town?  Or, 
on  the  contrary,  does  not  a  hot  color  always  tint  the 
colder  mixture?  Suppose  that  Carmen  came  to  live 
just  outside  the  Cathedral  close  and  walked  every 
morning  with  her  gay  parasol  and  her  pretty  swishing 
skirts  past  the  Bishop's  window. 

We  can  fancy  his  pen  hanging  dully  above  his  ser- 
mon, with  his  eyes  on  space  for  any  wandering 
thought,  as  if  the  clouds,  like  treasure  ships  upon  a 
sea,  were  freighted  with  riches  for  his  use.  The 
Bishop  is  brooding  on  an  address  to  the  Ladies'  Sew- 
ing Guild.  He  must  find  a  text  for  his  instructive 
finger.  It  is  a  warm  spring  morning  and  the  daffodils 
are  waving  in  the  borders  of  the  grass.  A  robin  sings 
in  the  hedge  with  an  answer  from  his  mate.  There  is 
wind  in  the  tree-tops  with  lively  invitation  to  adven- 
ture, but  the  Bishop  is  bent  to  his  sober  task.  Carmen 
picks  her  way  demurely  across  the  puddles  in  the 
direction  of  the  Vicarage.  Her  eyes  turn  modestly 
toward  his  window.  Surely  she  does  not  see  him  at 
his  desk.  That  dainty  inch  of  scarlet  stocking  is  quite 
by  accident.  It  is  the  puddles  and  the  wind  frisking 
with  her  skirt. 

"Eh!  Dear  me!"  The  good  man  is  merely  human. 
He  pushes  up  his  spectacles  for  nearer  sight.  He 
draws  aside  the  curtain.  "Dear  me!  Bless  my  soul! 
^VTio  is  the  lady?  Quite  a  foreign  air.  I  don't  re- 
member her  at  our  little  gatherings  for  the  heathen." 
A  text  is  forgotten.    The  clouds  are  empty  caravels. 


ON  FINDING  A  PLOT  109 

He  calls  to  Betsy,  the  housemaid,  for  a  fresh  neck- 
cloth and  his  gaiters.  He  has  recalled  a  meeting  with 
the  Vicar  and  goes  out  whistling  softly,  to  disaster. 

Alas!  In  my  forgetfulness  I  have  skimmed  upon 
the  actual  plot.  You  have  recalled  already  how  La 
Signora  Madeline  descended  on  the  Bishop's  Palace. 
Her  beauty  was  a  hard  assault.  Except  for  her 
crippled  state  she  might  herself  have  toppled  the 
Bishop  over.  But  she  pales  beside  the  dangerous 
Carmen. 

Suppose,  for  a  better  example,  that  the  cheerful 
Mark  Tapley  who  always  came  out  strong  in  adver- 
sity, were  placed  in  a  modern  Russian  novel.  As  the 
undaunted  Taplovitch  he  would  have  shifted  its  gloom 
to  a  sunny  ending.  Fancy  our  own  dear  PoUyanna, 
the  glad  girl,  adopted  by  an  aunt  in  "Crime  and  Pun- 
ishment." Even  Dostoyevsky  must  have  laid  down 
his  doleful  pen  to  give  her  at  last  a  happy  wedding — 
flower-girls  and  angel-food,  even  a  shrill  soprano 
behind  the  hired  palms  and  a  table  of  cut  glass. 

Oliver  Twist  and  Nancy, — merely  acquaintances 
in  the  original  story, — with  a  fresh  hand  at  the  plot, 
might  have  gone  on  a  bank  holiday  to  Margate.  And 
been  blown  off  shore.  Suppose  that  the  whole  excur- 
sion was  wrecked  on  Treasure  Island  and  that  every- 
one was  drowned  except  Nancy,  Oliver  and  perhaps 
the  trombone  player  of  the  ship's  band,  who  had  blown 
himself  so  full  of  wind  for  fox-trots  on  the  upper  deck 
that  he  couldn't  sink.  It  is  Robinson  Crusoe,  lodging 
as  a  handsome  bachelor  on  the  lonely  island, — observe 


110  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  cunning  of  the  plot ! — who  battles  with  the  waves 
and  rescues  Nancy.  The  movie-rights  alone  of  this 
are  worth  a  fortune.  And  then  Crusoe,  Oliver,  Fri- 
day and  the  trombone  player  stand  a  siege  from  John 
Silver  and  Bill  Sikes,  who  are  pirates,  with  Spanish 
doubloons  in  a  hidden  cove.  And  Crusoe  falls  in  love 
with  Nancy.  Here  is  a  tense  triangle.  But  youth 
goes  to  youth.  Crusoe's  whiskers  are  only  dyed  their 
glossy  black.  The  trombone  player,  by  good  luck 
(you  see  now  why  he  was  saved  from  the  wreck),  is 
discovered  to  be  a  retired  clergyman — doubtless  a 
Methodist.  The  happy  knot  is  tied.  And  then — a 
sail !  A  sail !  Oliver  and  Nancy  settle  down  in  a  semi- 
detached near  London,  with  oyster  shells  along  the 
garden  path  and  cat-tails  in  the  umbrella  jar.  The 
story  ends  prettily  under  their  plane-tree  at  the  rear — 
tea  for  three,  with  a  trombone  solo,  and  the  faithful 
Friday  and  Old  Bill,  reformed  now,  as  gardener, 
clipping  together  the  shrubs  against  the  sunny  wall. 

Was  there  a  serpent  in  the  garden  at  peaceful  Cran- 
ford?  Suppose  that  one  of  the  gay  rascals  of  Dumas, 
with  tall  boots  and  black  moustachios,  had  got  in  when 
the  tempting  moon  was  up.  Could  the  gentle  ladies 
in  their  fragile  guard  of  crinoline  have  withstood  this 
French  assault? 

Or  Camille,  perhaps,  before  she  took  her  cough, 
settled  at  Bath  and  entangled  Mr.  Pickwick  in  the 
Pump  Room.  Do  not  a  great  hat  and  feather  find 
their  victim  anywhere  ?  Is  not  a  silken  ankle  as  potent 
at  Bath  as  in  Bohemia?     Surely  a  touch  of  age  and 


ON  FINDING  A  PLOT  111 

gout  is  no  prevention  against  the  general  plague.  Nor 
does  a  bald  head  tower  above  the  softer  passions. 
Camille's  pretty  nose  is  powdered  for  the  onslaught. 
She  has  arranged  her  laces  in  dangerous  hazard  to  the 
eye.  And  now  the  bold  huzzy  undeniably  winks  at 
Mr.  Pickwick  over  her  pint  of  "killibeate."  She  drops 
her  fan  with  usual  consequence.  A  nod.  A  smile. 
A  word.  At  the  Assembly — mark  her  sudden  prog- 
ress and  the  triumphant  end! — they  sit  together  in 
the  shadows  of  the  balcony.  "My  dear,"  says  Mr. 
Pickwick,  gazing  tenderly  through  his  glasses,  "my 
love,  my  own,  will  you — bless  my  soul! — will  you 
share  my  lodgings  at  Mrs.  Bardell's  in  Goswell 
Street?"  We  are  mariners,  all  of  us,  coasting  in  dan- 
gerous waters.  It  is  the  syren's  voice,  her  white 
beauty  gleaming  on  the  shoal — it  is  the  moon  that 
throws  us  on  the  rocks. 

And  then  a  dozen  dowagers  breed  the  gossip. 
Duchesses,  frail  with  years,  pop  and  burst  with  the 
pleasant  secret.  There  is  even  greater  commotion 
than  at  Mr.  Pickwick's  other  disturbing  affair  with 
the  middle-aged  lady  in  the  yellow  curl-papers.  This 
previous  affair  you  may  recall.  He  had  left  his  watch 
by  an  oversight  in  the  taproom,  and  he  went  down  to 
get  it  when  the  inn  was  dark.  On  the  return  he  took  a 
false  direction  at  the  landing  and,  being  misled  by  the 
row  of  boots  along  the  hall,  he  entered  the  wrong 
room.  He  was  in  his  nightcap  in  bed  when,  peeping 
through  the  curtains,  he  saw  the  aforesaid  lady  brush- 
ing her  back  hair.    A  duel  was  narrowly  averted  when 


112  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

this  startling  scandal  came  to  the  ears  of  the  lady's 
lover,  Mr.  Peter  Magnus.  Camille,  I  think,  could 
have  kept  this  sharper  scandal  to  herself.  At  most, 
with  a  prudent  finger  on  her  lips,  she  would  have 
whispered  the  intrigue  harmlessly  behind  her  fan  and 
set  herself  to  snare  a  duke. 

I  like  to  think,  also,  of  the  incongruity  of  throwing 
Rollo  (Rollo  the  perfect,  the  Bayard  of  the  nursery, 
the  example  of  our  suffering  childhood) — Rollo 
grown  up,  of  course,  and  without  his  aseptic  Uncle 
George — into  the  gay  scandal,  let  us  say,  of  the 
Queen's  Necklace.  Perhaps  it  is  forgotten  how  he  and 
his  little  sister  Jane  went  to  the  Bull  Fight  in  Rome 
on  Sunday  morning  by  mistake.  They  were  looking 
for  the  Presbyterian  Church,  and  hand  in  hand  they 
followed  the  crowd.  It  is  needless  to  remind  you  how 
Uncle  George  was  vexed.  Rollo  was  a  prig.  He 
loved  his  Sunday  school  and  his  hour  of  piano  practice. 
He  brushed  his  hair  and  washed  his  face  without  com- 
pulsion. He  even  got  in  behind  his  ears.  He  went 
to  bed  cheerfully  upon  a  hint.  Thirty  j^ears  ago — I 
was  so  pestered — if  I  could  have  met  Rollo  in  the 
flesh  I  would  have  lured  him  to  the  alleyway  behind 
our  barn  and  pushed  him  into  the  manure-pit.  In  the 
crisp  vernacular  of  our  street,  I  would  have  punched 
the  everlasting  tar  out  of  him. 

It  was  circumstance  that  held  the  Bishop  and  Rollo 
down.  Isn't  Cinderella  just  a  common  story  of  sordid 
realism  until  the  fairy  godmother  appears?  Except 
for  the  pumpkin  and  a  very  small  foot  she  would  have 


ON  FINDING  A  PLOT  113 

married  the  butcher's  boy,  and  been  snubbed  by  her 
sisters  to  the  end.  It  was  only  luck  that  it  was  a 
prince  who  awakened  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  The 
plumber's  assistant  might  have  stumbled  by.  What 
was  Aladdin  without  his  uncle,  the  magician?  Do 
princesses  still  sleep  exposed  to  a  golden  kiss?  Are 
there  lamps  for  rubbing,  discarded  now  in  attics  ? 

Sinbad,  with  a  steady  wife,  would  have  stayed  at 
home  and  become  an  alderman.  Romeo  might  have 
married  a  Montague  and  lived  happily  ever  after.  It 
was  but  chance  that  Titania  awakened  in  the  Ass's 
company — chance  that  Viola  was  cast  on  the  coast  of 
lUyria  and  found  her  lover.  Any  of  these  plots  could 
have  been  altered  by  jogging  the  author's  elbow.  A 
bit  of  indigestion  wrecks  the  crimson  shallop. 
Comedy  or  tragedy  is  but  the  falling  of  the  dice.  By 
the  flip  of  a  coin  comes  the  poisoned  goblet  or  the 
princess. 

But  my  young  author's  experiment  with  De 
Maupassant  was  not  successful.  He  tells  me  that 
hunger  caught  him  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and 
that  he  went  forth  for  a  cup  of  malted  milk,  which  is 
his  weakness.    His  head  was  as  empty  as  his  stomach. 

And  yet  there  are  many  novels  written  and  even 
published,  and  most  of  them  seem  to  have  what  pass 
for  plots.  Bipeds,  undeniably,  are  set  up  with  some 
likeness  to  humanity.  They  talk  from  page  to  page 
without  any  squeak  of  bellows.  They  live  in  lodgings 
and  make  acquaintance  across  the  air-shaft.  They 
wrestle  with  villains.    They  fall  in  love.    They  starve 


llJf  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

and  then  grow  famous.  And  at  last,  in  all  good  books, 
journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting.  It  is  as  easy  as  lying. 
Only  a  plot  is  needed. 

And  may  not  anyone  set  up  the  puppets?  Rich 
man,  poor  man,  beggarman,  thief !  You  have  only  to 
say  eenie  meenie  down  the  list,  and  trot  out  a  brunette 
or  a  blonde.  There  is  broadcloth  in  the  tiring-box, 
and  swords  and  velvet;  and  there  is,  also,  patched 
wool,  and  shiny  elbows.  Your  lady  may  sigh  her  soul 
to  the  Grecian  tents,  or  watch  for  honest  Tom  on  his 
motor-cycle.  On  Venetian  balcony  and  village  stoop 
the  stars  show  alike  for  lovers  and  everywhere  there 
are  friendlj^  shadows  in  the  night. 

Like  a  master  of  marionettes,  we  may  pull  the 
puppets  by  their  strings.  It  is  such  an  easy  matter — 
if  once  a  plot  is  given — to  lift  a  beggar  or  to  overthrow 
a  rascal.  A  virtuous  puppet  can  be  hoisted  to  a  tinsel 
castle.  A  twitching  of  the  thumb  upsets  the  wicked 
King.  Rollo  is  pitched  to  his  knees  before  a  scheming 
beauty.  And  would  it  not  be  fun  to  dangle  before  the 
Bishop  that  little  Carmen  figure  with  her  daring  lace 
and  scarlet  stockings? — or  to  swing  the  bold  Camille 
by  the  strings  into  Mr.  Pickwick's  arms  as  the  curtain 
falls? 

Was  it  not  Hawthorne  who  died  leaving  a  note- 
book full  of  plots?  And  Walter  Scott,  when  that 
loyal,  harassed  hand  of  his  was  shriveled  into  death, 
must  have  had  by  him  a  hundred  hints  for  projected 
books.  One  author — I  forget  who  he  was — be- 
queathed to  another  author — the  name  has  escaped 


ON  FINDING  A  PLOT  115 

me — a  memorandum  of  characters  and  events.  At 
any  author's  death  there  must  be  a  precious  sal- 
vage. Among  the  surviving  papers  there  sits  at  least 
one  dusty  heroine  waiting  for  a  lover.  Here  are  notes 
for  the  Duchess's  elopement.  Here  is  a  sketch  how 
the  deacon  proved  to  be  a  villain.  As  old  ladies  put 
by  scraps  of  silk  for  a  crazy  quilt,  shall  not  an  author, 
also,  treasure  in  his  desk  shreds  of  character  and  odds 
and  ends  to  make  a  plot? 

Now  the  truth  is,  I  suspect,  that  the  actual  plot  has 
little  to  do  with  the  merits  of  a  great  many  of  the  best 
books.  It  is  only  the  bucket  that  fetches  up  the  water 
from  the  well.  It  is  the  string  that  holds  the  shining 
beads.  Who  really  cares  whether  Tom  Jones  married 
Sophia?  And  what  does  it  matter  whether  Falstaff 
died  in  bed  or  in  his  boots,  or  whether  Uncle  Toby 
married  the  widow?  It  is  the  mirth  and  casual  ad- 
venture by  the  way  that  hold  our  interest. 

Some  of  the  best  authors,  indeed,  have  not  given  a 
thought  to  their  plots  until  it  is  time  to  wind  up  the 
volume.  When  Dickens  sent  the  Pickwick  Club  upon 
its  travels,  certainly  he  was  not  concerned  whether 
Tracy  Tupman  found  a  wife.  He  had  not  given  a 
thought  to  Sam's  romance  with  the  pretty  housemaid 
at  Mr.  Nupkins's.  The  elder  Mrs.  Weller's  fatal 
cough  was  clearly  a  happy  afterthought.  Thackeray, 
at  the  start,  could  hardly  have  foreseen  Esmond's 
marriage.  When  he  wrote  the  early  chapters  of 
"Vanity  Fair,"  he  had  not  traced  Becky  to  her  shabby 
garret  of  the  Elephant  at  Pumpernickel.    Dumas,  I 


116  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

have  no  doubt,  wrote  from  page  to  page,  careless  of 
the  end.  Doubtless  he  marked  Milady  for  a  bad  end, 
but  was  unconcerned  whether  it  would  be  a  cough  or 
noose.  Victor  Hugo  did  no  more  than  follow  a  trail 
across  the  mountains  of  his  invention,  content  with  the 
kingdoms  of  each  new  turning. 

In  these  older  and  more  deliberate  books,  if  a  young 
lady  smiled  upon  the  hero,  it  was  not  already  schemed 
whether  they  would  be  lovers,  with  the  very  manner 
of  his  proposal  already  set.  The  glittering  moon  was 
not  yet  bespoken  for  the  night.  "My  dear  young 
lady,"  this  older  author  thinks,  "you  have  certainly 
very  pretty  eyes  and  I  like  the  way  that  lock  of  brown 
hair  rests  against  your  ear,  but  I  am  not  at  all  sure 
that  I  shall  let  you  marry  my  hero.  Please  sit  around 
for  a  dozen  chapters  while  I  observe  you.  I  must  see 
you  in  tweed  as  well  as  silk.  Perhaps  you  have  an 
ugly  habit  of  whining.  Or  safe  in  a  married  state  you 
might  wear  a  mob-cap  in  to  breakfast.  I'll  send  my 
hero  up  to  London  for  his  fling.  There  is  an  actress 
I  must  have  him  meet.  I'll  let  him  frolic  through  the 
winter.    On  his  return  he  may  choose  between  you." 

"My  dear  madam,"  another  of  these  older  authors 
meditates,  "how  can  I  judge  you  on  a  first  acquaint- 
ance? Certainly  you  talk  loosely  for  an  honest  wife. 
It  is  too  soon,  as  yet,  to  know  how  far  your  flirtation 
leads.  I  must  observe  you  with  Mr.  Fopling  in  the 
garden  after  dinner.  If,  later,  I  grow  dull  and  my 
readers  nod,  your  elopement  will  come  handy." 

Nor  was  a  lady  novelist  of  the  older  school  less  de- 


ON  FINDING  A  PLOT  117 

liberate.  When  a  bold  adventurer  appears,  she  holds 
her  heroine  to  the  rearward  of  her  affection.  "I'll 
make  no  decision  yet  for  Lady  Emily,"  she  thinks. 
"This  gay  fellow  may  have  a  wife  somewhere.  His 
smooth  manner  with  the  ladies  comes  with  practice. 
It  is  soon  enough  if  I  decide  upon  their  affair  in  my 
second  volume.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  captain  may 
prove  to  be  the  better  man." 

And  yet  this  spacious  method  requires  an  ample 
genius.  A  smaller  writer  must  take  a  map  and  put  his 
finger  beforehand  on  his  destination.  When  a  hero 
fares  forth  singing  in  the  dawn,  the  author  must  know 
at  once  his  snug  tavern  for  the  night.  The  hazard  of 
the  morning  has  been  matched  already  with  a  peaceful 
twilight.  The  seeds  of  time  are  planted,  the  very 
harvest  counted  when  the  furrow's  made.  My  heart 
goes  out  to  that  young  author  who  sits  locked  in  his 
study,  munching  his  barren  apple.  He  must  perfect 
his  scenario  before  he  starts.  How  easy  would  be  his 
task,  if  only  he  could  just  begin,  "Once  upon  a  time," 
and  follow  his  careless  contrivance. 

I  know  a  teacher  who  has  a  full-length  novel  un- 
pubhshed  and  concealed.  Sometimes,  I  fancy,  at  mid- 
night, when  his  Latin  themes  are  marked,  he  draws 
forth  its  precious  pages.  He  alters  and  smooths  his 
sentences  while  the  household  sleeps.  And  even  in 
his  classroom,  as  he  listens  to  the  droning  of  a  con- 
jugation, he  leaps  to  horse.  Little  do  his  students 
suspect,  as  they  stutter  with  their  verbs,  that  with 


118  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

their  teacher,  heedless  of  convention,  rides  the  dark 
lady  of  his  swift  adventure. 

I  look  with  great  awe  on  an  acquaintance  who 
averages  more  than  one  story  a  week  and  publishes 
them  in  a  periodical  called  Frisky  Stories.  He  shifts 
for  variety  among  as  many  as  five  or  six  pen-names. 
And  I  marvel  at  a  friend  who  once  wrote  a  story  a  day 
for  a  newspaper  syndicate.  But  his  case  was  pathetic. 
When  I  saw  him  last,  he  was  sitting  on  a  log  in  the 
north  forest,  gloomily  estimating  how  many  of  his 
wretched  stories  would  cover  the  wood-pulp  of  the 
state.  His  health  was  threatened.  He  was  resting 
from  the  toil 

"Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 
And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up." 

From  all  this  it  must  appear  that  the  real  difficulty 
is  in  finding  a  sufficient  plot.  The  start  of  a  plot  is 
easy,  but  it  is  hard  to  carry  it  on  and  end  it.  I  myself, 
on  any  vacant  morning,  could  get  a  hero  tied  hand  and 
foot  inside  a  cab,  but  then  I  would  not  know  where 
to  drive  him.  I  have  thought,  in  an  enthusiastic 
moment,  that  he  might  be  lowered  down  a  manhole 
through  the  bottom  of  the  cab.  This  is  an  unprece- 
dented villainy,  and  I  have  gone  so  far  as  to  select  a 
lonely  manhole  in  Gramercy  Park  around  the  corner 
from  the  Players'  Club.  But  I  am  lost  how  my  hero 
could  be  rescued.  Covered  with  muck,  I  could  hardly 
hope  that  his  lady  would  go  running  to  his  arms.     I 


ON  FINDING  A  PLOT  119 

have,  also,  a  pretty  pencil  for  a  fight  in  the  ancient 
style,  with  swords  upon  a  stairway.  But  what  then? 
And  what  shall  I  do  with  the  gallant  Percival  de 
Vere,  after  he  has  slid  down  the  rope  from  his  beetling 
dungeon  tower?  As  for  ladies — I  could  dress  up  the 
pretty  creatures,  but  would  they  move  or  speak  upon 
my  bidding?  No  one  would  more  gladly  throw  a  lady 
and  gentleman  on  a  desert  island.  At  a  pinch  I  flatter 
myself  I  could  draw  a  roaring  lion.  But  in  what  cir- 
cumstance should  the  hungry  cannibals  appear? 
These  questions  must  tax  a  novelist  heavily. 

Or  might  I  not,  for  copy,  strip  the  front  from  that 
building  opposite  ? 

"The  whole  of  the  frontage  shaven  sheer, 
The  inside  gaped :  exposed  to  day. 
Right  and  wrong  and  common  and  queer, 
Bare,  as  the  palm  of  your  hand,  it  lay." 

Every  room  contains  a  story.  That  chair,  the  stove, 
the  very  tub  for  washing  holds  its  secrets.  The  stairs 
echo  with  the  tread  of  a  dozen  lives.  And  in  every 
crowd  upon  the  street  I  could  cast  a  stone  and  find  a 
hero.  There  is  a  seamstress  somewhere,  a  locksmith, 
a  fellow  with  a  shovel.  I  need  but  the  genius  to  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  their  mystery.  The  rumble  of  the 
subway  is  the  friction  of  lives  that  rub  together.  The 
very  roar  of  cities  is  the  meshing  of  our  human  gear. 
I  dream  of  this  world  I  might  create.  In  romantic 
mood,  a  castle  lifts  its  towers  into  the  blue  dome  of 


1^0  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

heaven.  I  issue  in  spirit  with  Jeanne  d'Arc  from  the 
gate  of  Orleans,  and  I  play  the  tragedy  with  changing 
scene  until  the  fires  of  Rouen  have  fallen  into  ashes. 
I  sail  the  seas  with  Raleigh.  I  scheme  with  the  hump- 
backed Richard.  Out  of  the  north,  with  wind  and 
sunlight,  my  hero  comes  singing  to  his  adventures. 

It  would  be  glorious  fun  to  create  a  world,  to  paint 
a  valley  in  autumn  colors  and  set  up  a  village  at  the 
crossroads.  Housewives  chatter  at  their  wash-lines. 
Wheels  rattle  on  the  wooden  bridge.  Old  men  doze 
on  the  grocery  bench.  And  now  let's  throw  the  plot, 
at  a  hazard,  around  the  lovely  Susan,  the  gTocer's 
clerk.  For  her  lover  we  select  a  young  garage-man, 
the  jest  of  the  village,  who  tinkers  at  an  improvement 
of  a  carburetor.  The  owner  of  a  thousand  acres  on 
the  hill  shall  be  our  villain — a  wastrel  and  a  gambler. 
There  is  a  mortgage  on  his  acres.  He  is  pressed  for 
payment.  He  steals  the  garage-man's  blueprints. 
And  now  it  is  night.  Susan  dearly  loves  a  movie. 
The  Orpheum  is  eight  miles  off.  Painted  Cupids. 
Angels  with  trumpets.  The  villain.  An  eight- 
cylindered  runabout.  Susan.  B-r-r-r-r!  The  movie. 
The  runabout  again.  A  lonely  road.  Just  a  kiss,  my 
pretty  girl.  Help!  Help!  Chug!  Chug!  Aha! 
Foiled!  The  garage-man.  You  cur!  You  hound! 
Take  that!  And  that!  Susan.  The  garage-man. 
The  blueprints.  Name  the  happy  day.  Oh,  joy!  Oh, 
bliss ! 

It  would  be  fun  to  model  these  little  worlds  and 
set  them  up  to  cool. 


ON  FINDING  A  PLOT  121 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  there  are  a  million  stars 
across  the  night?  God  Himself  enjoyed  the  vast 
creation  of  His  worlds.  It  was  the  evening  and  the 
morning  of  the  sixth  day  when  He  set  his  puppets 
moving  in  their  stupendous  comedy. 


Circus  Days. 


THERE  have  been  warm  winds  out  of  the  south 
for  several  days,  soft  rains  have  teased  the 
daffodils  into  blossom  along  the  fences,  and 
this  morning  I  heard  the  first  clicking  of  a  lawn- 
mower.  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  winter  was 
tugging  at  the  chimneys,  that  March  freshets  were 
brawling  in  the  gutters;  but,  with  the  shifting  of  the 
cock  upon  the  steeple,  the  spring  comes  from  its  hiding 
in  the  hills.  At  this  moment,  to  prove  the  changing 
of  the  season,  a  street  organ  plays  beneath  my  window. 
It  is  a  rather  miserable  box  and  is  stocked  with  senti- 
mental tunes  for  coaxing  nickels  out  of  pity.  Its  in- 
laid mahogany  is  soiled  with  travel.  It  has  a  peg-leg 
and  it  hangs  around  the  musician's  neck  as  if  weary 
of  the  road.  "Master,"  it  seems  to  say,  "may  we  sit 
awhile?    My  old  stump  is  wearing  oif."    And  yet  on 


CIRCUS  DAYS  im 


this  warm  morning  in  the  sunlight  there  is  almost  a 
touch  of  frolic  in  the  box.  A  syncopation  attempts  a 
happier  temper.  It  has  sniffed  the  fragrant  air,  and 
desires  to  put  a  better  face  upon  its  troubles. 

The  housemaid  next  door  hangs  out  the  Monday's 
garments  to  dry,  and  there  is  a  pleasant  flapping  of 
legs  and  arms  as  if  impatient  for  partners  in  a  dance. 
Must  a  petticoat  sit  unasked  when  the  music  plays? 
Surely  breeches  and  stockings  will  not  hold  back  when 
a  lively  skirt  shall  beckon.  A  slow  waltz  might  even 
tempt  aunty's  nightgown  off  the  line.  If  only  a  vege- 
table man  would  come  with  a  cart  of  red  pieplant  and 
green  lettuce  and  offer  his  gaudy  wares  along  the 
street,  then  the  evidence  of  spring  would  be  complete. 

But  there  is  even  better  evidence  at  hand.  This 
morning  I  noticed  that  a  circus  poster  had  been  pasted 
on  the  billboard  near  the  school-house.  Several  chil- 
dren and  I  stopped  to  see  the  wonders  that  were 
promised.  Then  the  school-bell  rang  and  they 
dawdled  off.  At  Stratford,  also,  once  upon  a  time, 
boys  with  shining  morning  faces  crept  like  snails  to 
school.  Were  there  circus  billboards  in  so  remote  a 
day?  The  pundits,  bleared  with  search,  are  strangely 
silent.  This  morning  it  will  be  a  shrewd  lesson  that 
keeps  the  children's  thoughts  from  leaping  out  the 
window.  Two  times  two  will  hardly  hold  their  noses 
on  the  desk. 

On  the  billboard  there  is  the  usual  blonde  with  pink 
legs,  balanced  on  one  toe  on  a  running  horse.  The 
clown  holds  the  paper  hoop.     The  band  is  blowing 


WJf,  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

itself  very  red  in  the  face.  An  acrobat  leaps  headlong 
from  a  high  trapeze.  There  are  five  rings,  thirty 
clowns,  an  amazing  variety  of  equestrian  and  slack- 
wire  genius,  a  galaxy  of  dazzling  beauties;  and  every 
performance  includes  a  dizzy,  death-defying  dive  by 
a  dauntless  dare-devil — on  a  bicycle  from  the  top  of 
the  tent.  And  of  course  there  are  elephants  and  per- 
forming dogs  and  fat  ladies.  One  day  only — two 
performances — rain  or  shine. 

Does  not  this  kind  of  billboard  stir  the  blood  in 
these  languid  days  of  spring?  It  is  a  tonic  to  the  sober 
street.  It  is  a  shining  dial  that  marks  the  coming  of 
the  summer.  In  the  winter  let  barns  and  fences  pro- 
claim the  fashion  of  our  dress  and  tease  us  with  bar- 
gains for  the  kitchen.  But  in  the  spring,  when  the 
wind  is  from  the  south,  fences  have  a  better  use.  They 
announce  the  circus.  What  child  now  will  not  come 
upon  a  trot?  What  student  can  keep  to  his  solemn 
book?  There  is  a  sleepy  droning  from  the  school- 
house.  The  irregular  verbs — lawless  rascals  with  a 
past — chafe  in  a  dull  routine.  The  clock  loiters 
through  the  hour. 

It  was  by  mere  coincidence  that  last  night  on  my 
way  home  I  stopped  at  a  news-stand  for  a  daily  paper, 
and  saw  a  periodical  by  the  name  of  the  Paste-Brush. 
On  a  gay  cover  was  the  picture  of  another  blonde — a 
sister,  maybe,  of  the  lady  of  the  billboard.  She  was 
held  by  an  ankle  over  a  sea  of  upturned  faces,  but  by 
her  happy,  inverted  smile  she  seemed  unconscious  of 
her  danger. 


CIRCUS  DAYS  125 


The  Paste-Brush  is  new  to  me.  I  bought  a  copy, 
folded  its  scandalous  cover  out  of  sight  and  took  it 
home.  It  proves  to  be  the  trade  journal  of  the  circus 
and  amusement-park  interests.  It  announces  a  cir- 
culation of  seventy  thousand,  which  I  assume  is 
largely  among  acrobats,  magicians,  fat  ladies,  clowns, 
liniment-venders,  lion-tamers,  Caucasian  Beauties  and 
actors  on  obscure  circuits. 

Now  it  happens  that  among  a  fairly  wide  acquaint- 
ance I  cannot  boast  a  single  acrobat  or  liniment- 
vender.  ISTor  even  a  professional  fat  man.  A  friend 
of  mine,  it  is  true,  swells  in  that  direction  as  an 
amateur,  but  he  rolls  night  and  morning  as  a  correc- 
tive. I  did  once,  also,  pass  an  agreeable  hour  at  a 
County  Fair  with  a  strong  man  who  bends  iron  bars 
in  his  teeth.  He  had  picked  me  from  his  audience  as 
one  of  convincing  weight  to  hang  across  the  bar  while 
he  performed  his  trick.  When  the  show  was  done,  he 
introduced  me  to  the  Bearded  Beauty  and  a  talkative 
Mermaid  from  Chicago.  One  of  my  friends,  also,  has 
told  me  that  she  is  acquainted  with  a  lady — a  former 
pupil  of  her  Sunday  school — who  leaps  on  holidays  in 
the  park  from  a  parachute.  The  bantam  champion, 
too,  many  years  ago,  lived  behind  us  around  the  cor- 
ner; but  he  was  a  distant  hero,  sated  with  fame,  uncon- 
scious of  our  youthful  worship.  But  these  meetings 
are  exceptional  and  accidental.  Most  of  us,  let  us 
assume,  find  our  acquaintance  in  the  usual  walks  of 
life.  Last  night,  therefore,  having  laid  by  the  letters 
of  Madame  d'Arblay,  on  whose  seven  volumes  I  have 


126  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

been  engaged  for  a  month,  I  took  up  the  Paste-Brush 
and  was  carried  at  once  into  another  and  unfamiliar 
world. 

The  frontispiece  is  the  big  tent  of  the  circus  with 
side-shows  in  the  foreground.  There  is  a  great  wheel 
with  its  swinging  baskets,  a  merry-go-round,  a  Funny- 
Castle,  and  a  sword-swallower's  booth.  By  a  dense 
crowd  around  a  wagon  I  am  of  opinion  that  here 
nothing  less  than  red  lemonade  is  sold.  Certainly 
Jolly  Maude,  "that  mountain  of  flesh,"  holds  a  distant, 
surging  crowd  against  the  ropes. 

An  article  entitled  "Freaks  I  Have  Known"  is 
worth  the  reading.  You  may  care  to  know  that  a  cele- 
brated missing-link — I  withhold  the  lady's  name — 
plays  solitaire  in  her  tent  as  she  waits  her  turn. 
Bearded  ladies,  it  is  asserted,  are  mostly  married  and 
have  a  fondness  for  crocheting  out  of  hours.  A  cer- 
tain three-legged  boy,  "the  favorite  of  applauding 
thousands,"  tried  to  enlist  for  the  war,  but  was  re- 
jected because  he  broke  up  a  pair  of  shoes.  The  Wild 
Man  of  Borneo  lived  and  died  in  Waltham,  Massa- 
chusetts. If  the  street  and  number  were  given,  it 
would  tempt  me  to  a  pilgrimage.  Have  I  not  jour- 
neyed to  Concord  and  to  Plymouth?  Perhaps  an  old 
inhabitant — an  antique  spinster  or  rheumatic  grocer 
— can  still  remember  the  pranks  of  the  Wild  Man's 
childhood. 

But  in  the  Paste-Brush  the  pages  of  advertisement 
are  best.  Slot  machines  for  chewing-gum  are  offered 
for  sale — Merry- Widow  swings,  beach  babies  (a  kind 


CIRCUS  DAYS  127 


of  doll),  genuine  Tiffany  rings  that  defy  the  expert, 
second-hand  saxophones,  fountain  pens  at  eight  cents 
each  and  sofa  pillows  with  pictures  of  Turkish 
beauties. 

But  let  us  suppose  that  you,  my  dear  sir,  are  one 
of  those  seventy  thousand  subscribers  and  are  by  pro- 
fession a  tattooer.  On  the  day  of  publication  with 
what  eagerness  you  scan  its  columns!  Here  is  your 
opportunity  to  pick  up  an  improved  outfit — "stencils 
and  supplies  complete,  with  twelve  chest  designs  and 
a  picture  of  a  tattooed  lady  in  colors,  twelve  by  eight- 
een, for  display.  Send  for  price  list."  Or  if  you 
have  skill  in  charming  snakes  and  your  stock  of  vipers 
is  running  low,  write  to  the  Snake  King  of  Florida 
for  his  catalogue.  "He  treats  you  right."  Here  is 
an  advertisement  of  'an  alligator  farm.  Alligator- 
wrestlers,  it  is  said,  make  big  money  at  popular  resorts 
on  the  southern  circuit.  You  take  off  your  shoes  and 
stockings,  when  the  crowd  has  gathered,  and  wade  into 
the  slimy  pool.  It  needs  only  a  moderate  skill  to 
seize  the  fierce  creature  by  his  tail  and  haul  him  to  the 
shore.  A  deft  movement  throws  him  on  his  back. 
Then  you  tickle  him  under  the  ear  to  calm  him  and 
pass  the  hat. 

Here  in  the  Paste-Brush  is  an  announcement  of  a 
ship-load  of  monkeys  from  Brazil.  Would  you  care 
to  buy  a  walrus?  A  crocodile  is  easy  money  on  the 
Public  Square  in  old-home  week.  Or  perhaps  you  are 
a  glass-blower  with  your  own  outfit,  a  ventriloquist,  a 
diving  beauty,  a  lyric  tenor  or  a  nail-eater.    If  so,  here 


128  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

is  an  agent  who  will  book  you  through  the  West.  The 
small  cities  and  large  towns  of  Kansas  yearn  for  you. 
Or  if  you,  my  dear  madam,  are  of  good  figure,  the 
Alamo  Beauties,  touring  in  Mississippi,  want  your 
services.    Long  season.    No  back  pay. 

Would  you  like  to  play  a  tuba  in  a  ladies'  orchestra? 
You  are  wanted  in  Oklahoma.  The  Sunshine  Girls — 
famous  on  western  circuits — are  looking  to  augment 
their  number.  "Wanted:  Woman  for  Eliza  and 
Ophelia.  Also  a  child  for  Eva.  Must  double  as  a 
pony.     State  salary.    Canada  theatres." 

It  is  affirmed  that  there  is  money  in  box-ball,  that 
hoop-la  yields  a  fortune,  that  "you  mop  up  the  tin" 
with  a  huckley-buck.  It  sounds  easy.  I  wonder  what 
a  huckley-buck  is  like.  I  wonder  if  I  have  ever  seen 
one.  It  must  be  common  knowledge  to  the  readers 
of  the  Paste-Brush,  for  the  term  is  not  explained. 
Perhaps  one  puts  a  huckley-buck  in  a  wagon  and 
drives  from  town  to  town.  Doubtless  it  returns  a 
fortune  in  a  County  Fair.  Is  this  not  an  opportunity 
for  an  underpaid  school-teacher  or  slim  seamstress? 
No  longer  must  she  subsist  upon  a  pittance.  Here  is 
rest  for  her  blue,  old  fingers.  Let  her  write  today  for 
a  catalogue.  She  should  choose  a  huckley-buck  of 
gaudy  color,  with  a  Persian  princess  on  the  side,  to 
draw  the  crowd.  Let  her  stop  by  the  village  pump 
and  sound  a  stirring  blast  upon  her  megaphone. 

Or  perhaps  you,  my  dear  sir,  have  been  chafing  in 
an  indoor  job.  You  have  been  hooped  through  a 
dreary  winter  upon  a  desk.    If  so,  your  gloomy  dis- 


CIRCUS  DAYS  1^9 


position  can  be  mended  by  a  hoop-la  booth,  whatever 
it  is.  "This  way,  gentlemen!  Try  your  luck!  Posi- 
tively no  blanks.  A  valuable  prize  for  everybody." 
Your  stooped  shoulders  will  straighten.  Your  diges- 
tion will  come  to  order  in  a  month.  Or  why  not  run  a 
stand  at  the  beach  for  walking-sticks,  with  a  view  in 
the  handle  of  a  "dashing  French  actress  in  a  daring 
pose,  or  the  latest  picture  of  President  and  Mrs.  Wil- 
son at  the  Peace  Conference." 

Or  curiosities  may  be  purchased — "two-headed 
giants,  mermaids,  sea-serpents,  a  devil-child  and  an 
Egyptian  mummy.  New  lists  ready."  A  mummy 
would  be  a  quiet  and  profitable  companion  for  our 
seamstress  in  the  long  vacation.  It  would  need  less 
attention  than  a  sea-serpent.  She  should  announce 
the  dusty  creature  as  the  darling  daughter  of  the 
Ptolemies.  When  the  word  has  gone  round,  she  may 
sit  at  ease  before  the  booth  in  scarlet  overalls  and 
count  the  dropping  nickels.  With  what  vigor  will 
she  take  to  her  thimble  in  the  autumn ! 

Out  in  Gilmer,  Texas,  there  is  a  hog  with  six  legs — 
"alive  and  healthy.  Five  hundred  dollars  take  it." 
Here  is  a  merchant  who  will  sell  you  "snake,  frog  and 
monkey  tights."  After  your  church  supper,  on  the 
stage  of  the  Sunday  school,  surely,  in  such  a  costume, 
my  dear  madam,  you  could  draw  a  crowd.  Study 
the  trombone  and  double  your  income.  Can  you 
yodle?  "It  can  be  learned  at  home,  evenings,  in  six 
easy  lessons." 


130  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

A  used  popcorn  engine  is  cut  in  half.  A  waffle 
machine  will  be  shipped  to  you  on  trial.  Does  no  one 
wish  to  take  the  road  with  a  five-legged  cow?  Here 
is  one  for  sale — an  extraordinary  animal  that  cleaned 
up  sixty  dollars  in  one  afternoon  at  a  County  Fair  in 
Indiana.  "Walk  up,  ladies  and  gentlemen!  The 
marvel  of  the  age.  Plenty  of  time  before  the  big  show 
starts.  A  five-legged  cow.  Count  'em.  Answers  to 
the  name  of  Guenevere.  Shown  before  all  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe.  Once  owned  by  the  Czar 
of  Russia.  Only  a  dime.  A  tenth  of  a  dollar.  Ten 
cents.    Show  about  to  start." 

Or  perhaps  you  think  it  more  profitable  to  buy  a 
steam  calliope — some  very  good  ones  are  offered 
second-hand  in  the  Paste-Brush — and  tour  your 
neighboring  towns.  Make  a  stand  at  the  crossroads 
under  the  soldiers'  monument.  Give  a  free  concert. 
Then  when  the  crowd  is  thick  about  you,  offer  them  a 
magic  ointment.  Rub  an  old  man  for  his  rheumatism. 
Throw  away  his  crutch,  clap  him  on  the  back  and  pro- 
nounce him  cured.  Or  pull  teeth  for  a  dollar  each. 
It  takes  but  a  moment  for  a  diagnosis.  When  once 
the  fashion  starts,  the  profitable  bicuspids  will  drop 
around  you. 

And  Funny  Castles  can  be  bought.  Perhaps  you  do 
not  know  what  they  are.  They  are  usual  in  amuse- 
ment parks.  You  and  a  favorite  lady  enter,  hand  in 
hand.  It  is  dark  inside  and  if  she  is  of  an  agreeable 
timidity  she  leans  to  your  support.    Only  if  you  are  a 


CIRCUS  DAYS  131 


churl  will  you  deny  your  arm.  Then  presently  a  fiery 
devil's  head  flashes  beside  you  in  the  passage.  The 
flooring  tilts  and  wobbles  as  you  step.  Here,  surely, 
no  lady  will  wish  to  keep  her  independence.  Presently 
a  picture  opens  in  the  waU.  It  is  souls  in  heU,  or  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  on  a  journey.  Then  a  sharp  draft 
ascends  through  an  opening  in  the  floor.  Your  lady 
screams  and  minds  her  skirts.  A  progress  through  a 
Funny  Castle,  it  is  said,  ripens  the  greenest  friendship. 
Now  take  the  lady  outside,  smooth  her  off  and  regale 
her  with  a  lovers'  sundae.  Funny  Castles,  with  wind 
machines,  a  Queen  of  Sheba  almost  new,  and  devil's 
head  complete,  can  be  purchased.  Remit  twenty-five 
per  cent  with  order.    The  balance  on  delivery. 

Perhaps  I  am  too  old  for  these  high  excitements. 
Funny  Castles  are  behind  me.  Ladies  of  the  circus, 
alas!  who  ride  in  golden  chariots  are  no  longer  beau- 
tiful. Cleopatra  in  her  tinsel  has  sunk  to  the  common 
level.  Clowns  with  slap-sticks  rouse  in  me  only  a 
moderate  delight. 

At  this  moment,  as  I  write,  the  clock  strikes  twelve. 
It  is  noon  and  school  is  out.  There  is  a  slamming  of 
desks  and  a  rush  for  caps.  The  boys  scamper  on  the 
stairs.  They  surge  through  the  gate.  The  acrobat 
on  the  billboard  greets  their  eyes — ^the  clown,  also  the 
lady  with  the  pink  legs.  They  pause.  They  gather  in 
a  circle.  They  have  fallen  victims  to  her  smile.  They 
mark  the  great  day  in  their  memory. 

The  wind  is  from  the  south.  The  daffodils  flourish 
along  the  fences.    The  street  organ  hangs  heavily  on 


132 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


its  strap.  There  will  be  a  parade  in  the  morning. 
The  freaks  will  be  on  their  platforms  by  one  o'clock. 
The  great  show  starts  at  two.  I  shall  buy  tickets  and 
take  Nepos,  my  nephew. 


In  Praise  of  a  Lawn-Mower. 

I  DO  not  recall  that  anyone  has  written  the  praises 
of  a  lawn-mower.  I  seem  to  sow  in  virgin  soil. 
One  could  hardly  expect  a  poet  to  lift  up  his 
voice  on  such  a  homely  theme.  By  instinct  he  prefers 
the  more  rhythmic  scythe.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
will  mechanical  folk  pay  a  full  respect  to  a  barren 
engine  without  cylinders  and  motive  power.  But  to 
me  it  is  just  intricate  enough  to  engage  the  interest. 
I  can  trace  the  relation  of  its  wheels  and  knives,  and 
see  how  the  lesser  spinning  starts  the  greater.  In  a 
printing  press,  on  the  contrary,  I  hear  only  the  general 
rattle.  Before  a  gas-engine,  also,  I  am  dumb.  Its 
sixteen  processes  to  an  explosion  baffle  me.  I  could 
as  easily  digest  a  machine  for  setting  type.  I  nod 
blankly,  as  if  a  god  explained  the  motion  of  the  stars. 
Even  when  I  select  a  motor  I  take  it  merely  on  repu- 
tation and  by  bouncing  on  the  cushions  to  test  its 
comfort. 

It  has  been  a  great  many  years  since  I  was  last 
intimate  with  a  lawn-mower.  My  acquaintance  began 
in  the  days  when  a  dirty  face  was  the  badge  of  free- 
dom. One  early  Saturday  morning  I  was  hard  at 
work  before  breakfast.  Mother  called  down  through 
the  upstairs  shutters,  at  the  first  clicking  of  the  knives, 
to  ask  if  I  wore  my  rubbers  in  the  dew.  With  the 
money  earned  by  noon,  I  went  to  Conrad's  shop.    The 


13J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

season  for  tops  and  marbles  had  gone  by.  But  in  the 
window  there  was  a  peerless  baseball  with  a  rubber 
core,  known  as  a  cock-of-the-walk.  By  indecision, 
even  by  starting  for  the  door,  I  bought  it  a  nickel  off 
because  it  was  specked  by  flies. 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  last  week,  at  first,  that  I 
could  cut  the  grass.  I  talked  with  an  Irishman  who 
keeps  the  lawn  next  door.  He  leaned  on  his  rake,  took 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  told  me  that  his  time  was 
full.  If  he  had  as  many  hands  as  a  centipede — so  he 
expressed  himself — he  could  not  do  all  the  work  that 
was  asked  of  him.  The  whole  street  clamored  for  his 
service.  Then  I  talked  with  an  ItaHan  on  the  other 
side,  who  comes  to  work  on  a  motor-cycle  with  his 
lawn-mower  across  his  shoulder.  His  time  was  worth 
a  dollar  an  hour,  and  he  could  squeeze  me  in  after 
supper  and  before  breakfast.  But  how  can  I  con- 
sistently write  upstairs — I  am  puttering  with  a  novel 
— with  so  expensive  a  din  sounding  in  my  ears?  My 
expected  royalties  shrink  beside  such  swollen  pay.  So 
I  have  become  my  own  yard-man. 

Last  week  I  had  the  lawn-mower  sharpened,  but  it 
came  home  without  adjustment.  It  went  down  the 
lawn  without  clipping  a  blade.  What  a  struggle  I 
had  as  a  child  getting  the  knives  to  touch  along  their 
entire  length !  I  remember  it  as  yesterday.  What  an 
ugly  path  was  left  when  they  cut  on  one  side  only! 
My  bicycle  chain,  the  front  wheel  that  wobbled,  the 
ball-bearings  in  the  gear,  none  of  these  things  were  so 
perplexing.     Last  week  I  got  out  my  screw-driver 


IN  PRAISE  OF  A  LAWN-MOWER  135 

— __ — . , 

with  somewhat  of  my  old  feeling  of  impotence.  I  sat 
down  on  the  grass  with  discouragement  in  contempla- 
tion. One  set  of  screws  had  to  be  loosened  while 
another  set  was  tightened,  and  success  lay  in  the  deli- 
cacy of  my  advance.  What  was  my  amazement  to 
discover  that  on  a  second  trial  my  mower  cut  to  its 
entire  width!  Even  when  I  first  wired  a  base-plug 
and  found  that  the  table  lamp  would  really  light,  I 
was  not  more  astonished. 

This  success  with  the  lawn-mower  has  given  me 
hope.  I  am  not,  as  I  am  accused,  all  thumbs.  I  may 
yet  become  a  handy  man  around  the  house.  Is  the 
swirl  of  furnace  pipes  inside  my  intellect?  Perhaps  I 
can  fix  the  leaky  packing  in  the  laundry  tubs,  and 
henceforth  look  on  the  plumber  as  an  equal  brother. 
My  dormant  brain  cells  at  last  are  wakened.  But  I 
must  curb  myself.  I  must  not  be  too  useful.  There 
is  no  rest  for  a  handy  man.  It  is  ignorance  that  per- 
mits a  vacant  holiday.  At  most  I  shall  admit  a 
familiarity  with  base-plugs  and  picture-wire  and 
rubber  washers — perhaps  even  with  canvas  awnings, 
which  smack  pleasantly  of  the  sea — but  I  shall  commit 
myself  no  further. 

Once  in  a  while  I  rather  enjoy  cleaning  the  garage 
— raking  down  the  cobwebs  from  the  walls  and  win- 
dows with  a  stream  from  the  hose — puddling  the  dirt 
into  the  central  drain.  I  am  ruthless  with  old  oil  cans 
and  with  the  discarded  clothing  of  the  chauffeur  we 
had  last  month.  Why  is  an  old  pair  of  pants  stuffed 
so  regularly  in  the  tool  drawer?    There  is  a  barrel  at 


136  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  alley  fence — but  I  shall  spare  the  details.  It  was 
the  river  Alpheus  that  Hercules  turned  through  the 
Augean  stables.  They  had  held  three  thousand  oxen 
and  had  not  been  cleaned  for  thirty  years.  Dear  me ! 
I  know  oxen.  I  rank  this  labor  ahead  of  the  kilhng 
of  the  Hydra,  or  fetching  the  golden  apples  of  the 
Hesperides.  Our  garage  can  be  sweetened  with  a 
hose. 

But  I  really  like  outside  work.  Last  week  I  pulled 
up  a  quantity  of  dock  and  dandelions  that  were 
strangling  the  grass.  And  I  raked  in  seed.  This 
morning,  when  I  went  out  for  the  daily  paper,  I  saw 
a  bit  of  tender  green.  The  Reds,  as  I  noticed  in  the 
headline  of  the  paper,  were  advancing  on  Warsaw. 
France  and  England  were  consulting  for  the  defense 
of  Poland,  but  I  ignored  these  great  events  and  stood 
transfixed  in  admiration  before  this  shimmer  of  new 
grass. 

Our  yard,  fore  and  aft,  is  about  an  afternoon's 
work.  And  now  that  I  have  cut  it  once  I  have  signed 
up  for  the  summer.  It  requires  just  the  right  amount 
of  intelligence.     I  would  not  trust  myself  to  pull 

weeds  in  the  garden.    M has  the  necessary  skill 

for  this.  I  might  pull  up  the  Canterbury  bells  which, 
out  of  season,  I  consider  unsightly  stalks.  And  I  do 
not  enjoy  clipping  the  grass  along  the  walks.  It  is  a 
kind  of  barber's  job.  But  I  like  the  long  straight- 
aways, and  I  could  v  ish  that  our  grass  plot  stretched 
for  another  hundred  feet. 

And  I  like  the  sound  of  a  lawn-mower.    It  is  such 


IN  PRAISE  OF  A  LAWN-MOWER  137 

a  busy  click  and  whirr.  It  seems  to  work  so  willingly. 
Not  even  a  sewing-machine  has  quite  so  brisk  a  tempo. 
And  when  a  lawn-mower  strikes  a  twig,  it  stops 
suddenly  on  its  haunches  with  such  impatience  to  be 
off  again.  "Bend  over,  won't  you,"  it  seems  to  say, 
"and  pull  out  that  stick.  These  trees  are  a  pesky 
nuisance.  They  keep  dropping  branches  all  the  while. 
Now  then!  Are  we  ready?  Whee!  What's  an 
apple  ?  I  can  cut  an  apple  all  to  flinders.  You  whistle 
and  I'll  whirr.    Let's  run  down  that  slope  together!" 


On  Dropping  Off  to  Sleep. 

I  SLEEP  too  well — that  is,  I  go  to  sleep  too  soon. 
I  am  told  that  I  pass  a  few  minutes  of  troubled 
breathing — not   vulgar   snores,   but    a   kind   of  | 

uneasy  ripple  on  the  shore  of  wakefulness — then  I 
drift  out  with  the  silent  tide.  Doubtless  I  merit  no 
sympathy  for  my  perfection — and  yet — 

Well,  in  the  first  place,  lately  we  have  had  windy, 
moonlit  nights  and  as  my  bed  sets  at  the  edge  of  the 
sleeping  porch  and  the  rail  cuts  off  the  earth,  it  is  like 
a  ride  in  an  aeroplane  to  lie  awake  among  the  torn  and 
ragged  clouds.  I  have  cast  off  the  moorings  of  the 
sluggish  world.  Our  garden  with  its  flowering  path, 
the  coop  for  our  neighbor's  chickens,  the  apple  tree, 
all  have  sunk  from  sight.  The  prow  of  my  plane  is 
pitched  across  the  top  of  a  waving  poplar.  Earth's 
harbor  lights  are  at  the  stern.  The  Pleiades  mark  the 
channel  to  the  open  sky.  I  must  hang  out  a  lantern 
to  fend  me  from  the  moon. 

I  shall  keep  awake  for  fifteen  minutes,  I  think. 
Perhaps  I  can  recall  Keats's  sonnet  to  the  night : 

"When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face. 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance — " 

and  those  lines  of  Milton  about  the  moon  rising  in 
clouded  majesty,  unveiling  her  peerless  light. 

Here  a  star  peeps  out.    Presently  its  companions 


ON  DROPPING  OFF  TO  SLEEP  139 

will  show  themselves  and  I  shall  know  the  constella- 
tion. Are  they  playing  like  little  children  at  hide-and- 
seek?  Do  I  catch  Arcturus  looking  from  its  cover? 
Shall  I  shout  hi-spy  to  Alpha  Lyra?  A  shooting  star, 
that  has  crouched  behind  a  cloud,  runs  home  to  the 
goal  untagged.  Surely  these  glistening  worlds  cannot 
be  hard-fisted  planets  like  our  own,  holding  a  close 
schedule  across  the  sky.  They  have  looted  the  shining 
treasure  of  the  sunset.  They  sail  the  high  fantastic 
seas  like  caravels  blown  from  India.  In  the  twilight 
they  have  lifted  vagrant  anchors  and  they  will  moor 
in  strange  havens  at  the  dawn. 

Are  not  these  ragged  clouds  the  garment  of  the 
night?  Like  the  beggar  maiden  of  an  ancient  tale  she 
runs  with  flying  raiment.  She  unmasks  her  beauty 
when  the  world's  asleep.  And  the  wind,  like  an  eager 
prince  upon  his  wooing,  rides  out  of  the  stormy  north. 

And  then!  Poof!  Sleep  draws  its  dark  curtain 
across  the  glittering  pageant — 

Presently  I  hear  Annie,  the  cook,  on  the  kitchen 
steps  below,  beating  me  up  to  breakfast.  She  sounds 
her  unwelcome  reveille  on  a  tin  pan  with  an  iron  spoon. 
Her  first  alarm  I  treat  with  indifference.  It  even 
weaves  itself  pleasantly  into  my  dreams.  I  have  been 
to  a  circus  lately,  let  us  say,  and  this  racket  seems  to 
be  the  tom-tom  of  a  side-show  where  a  thin  gentleman 
swallows  snakes.  Nor  does  a  second  outburst  stir  me. 
She  only  tries  the  metal  and  practices  for  the  later  din. 
At  the  third  alarm  I  rise,  for  now  she  nurses  a  mighty 
wrath.    I  must  humor  the  angry  creature  lest  in  her 


no  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

fury  she  push  over  a  shelf  of  crockery.  There  is  a 
cold  jump  for  slippers — a  chilly  passage. 

I  passed  a  week  lately  at  a  country  hotel  where 
there  were  a  number  of  bad  sleepers — men  broken  by 
the  cares  of  business,  but  convalescent.  Each  morn- 
ing, as  I  dressed,  I  heard  them  on  the  veranda  outside 
my  window,  exchanging  their  complaints.  "Well," 
said  one,  "I  slept  three  hours  last  night."  "I  wish  I 
could,"  said  a  second.  "I  never  do,"  said  a  third.  No 
matter  how  little  sleep  the  first  man  allowed  himself, 
the  second  clipped  off  an  hour.  The  third  man  told 
the  bells  he  had  heard — one  and  two  and  three  and 
four  — both  Baptist  and  Methodist — and  finished  with 
his  preceding  competitor  at  least  a  half  hour  down. 
But  always  there  was  an  old  man — an  ancient  man 
with  flowing  beard — who  waited  until  all  were  done, 
and  concluded  the  discussion  jurt  at  the  breakfast 
gong:  "^I  never  slept  a  wink/'  This  was  the  perfect 
score.  His  was  the  golden  cup.  Whereupon  the  in- 
somnious  veranda  hung  its  defeated  head  with  shame, 
and  filed  into  the  dining-room  to  be  soothed  and  com- 
forted with  griddle-cakes. 

This  daily  contest  recalled  to  me  the  story  of  the 
two  men  drowned  in  the  Dayton  and  Johnstown  floods 
who  boasted  to  each  other  when  they  came  to  heaven. 
Has  the  story  gone  the  rounds?  For  a  while  they 
were  the  biggest  lions  among  all  the  angels,  and  harps 
hung  untuned  and  neglected  in  their  presence.  As 
often  as  they  met  in  the  windy  portico  of  heaven,  one 
of  these  heroes,  falling  to  reminiscence  of  the  flood 


ON  DROPPING  OFF  TO  SLEEP  14,1 

that  drowned  him,  lifted  the  swirling  water  of  Johns- 
town to  the  second  floor.  The  other  hero,  not  to  be 
outdone,  drenched  the  Dayton  garrets.  The  first  was 
now  compelled  to  submerge  a  chimney.  Turn  by  turn 
they  mounted  in  competition  to  the  top  of  familiar 
steeples.  But  always  an  old  man  sat  by — an  ancient 
man  with  flowing  beard — ^who  said  "Fudge!"  in  a  tone 
of  great  contempt.  Must  I  continue?  Surely  you 
have  guessed  the  end.  It  was  the  old  mariner  himself. 
It  was  the  survivor  of  Ararat.  It  was  Noah.  Once, 
I  myself,  among  these  bad  sleepers  on  the  veranda, 
boasted  that  I  had  heard  the  bells  at  two  o'clock,  but 
I  was  scorned  as  an  unfledged  novice  in  their  high 
convention. 

Sleeping  too  well  seems  to  argue  that  there  is 
nothing  on  your  mind.'  Your  head,  it  is  asserted  by 
the  jealous,  is  a  vacancy  that  matches  the  empty  spaces 
of  the  night.  It  is  as  void  as  the  untwinkling  north. 
If  there  has  been  a  rummage,  they  affirm,  of  important 
matters  all  day  above  your  ears,  it  can  hardly  be 
checked  at  once  by  popping  the  tired  head  down  upon 
a  pillow.  These  fizzing  squibs  of  thought  cannot  be 
smothered  in  a  blanket.  When  one  has  planned  a 
railroad  or  a  revolution,  the  mighty  churning  still 
progresses  in  the  dark.  A  dubious  franchise  must  be 
gained.  Villains  must  be  pricked  down  for  execution. 
Or  bankers  have  come  up  from  Paraguay,  and  one 
meditates  from  hour  to  hour  on  the  sureness  of  the 
loan.  Or  perhaps  an  imperfect  poem  searches  for  a 
rhyme,  or  the  plot  of  a  novel  sticks. 


IJ^^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

It  is  the  shell,  they  say,  which  is  fetched  from  the 
stormy  sea  that  roars  all  night.  My  head,  alas,  by  the 
evidence,  is  a  shell  which  is  brought  from  a  stagnant 
shore. 

Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep !  Sleep 
that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleave  of  care  I  That  is  all 
very  well,  and  pretty  poetry,  but  I  am  afraid,  when 
everything  is  said,  that  I  am  a  sleepy-head.  I  do  not, 
of  course,  have  to  pinch  myself  at  a  business  meeting. 
At  high  noon  I  do  not  hear  the  lotus  song.  I  do  not 
topple,  full  of  dreams,  off  the  platform  of  a  street-car. 
The  sleepy  poppy  is  not  always  at  my  nose. 

Nor  do  I  yawn  at  dinner  behind  a  napkin,  or  doze 
in  the  firelight  when  there  are  guests  about.  My 
manners  keep  me  from  this  boorishness.  In  an  ex- 
tremity, if  they  sit  too  late,  I  stir  the  fire,  or  I  put  my 
head  out  of  doors  for  the  wind  to  waken  me.  I  show 
a  sudden  anxiety  whether  the  garage  is  locked.  I 
pretend  that  the  lawn-mower  is  left  outside,  or  that 
the  awnings  are  loose  and  flapping.  But  I  do  not 
dash  out  the  lights  when  our  guests  are  still  upon  the 
steps.  I  listen  at  the  window  until  I  hear  their  motor 
clear  the  corner.  Then  I  turn  furiously  to  my  buttons. 
I  kick  off  my  shoes  upon  the  staircase. 

Several  of  us  were  camping  once  in  the  woods 
north  of  Lake  Superior.  As  we  had  no  guides  we  did 
all  the  work  ourselves,  and  everyone  was  of  harder 
endurance  than  myself.  Was  it  not  Pippa  who  cried 
out  "Morning's  at  seven"?  Seven!  I  look  on  her  as 
being  no  better  than  a  slug-a-bed.     She  should  have 


ON  DROPPING  OFF  TO  SLEEP  l^S 

had  her  dishes  washed  and  been  on  her  way  by  six. 
Our  day  began  at  five.  Our  tents  had  to  be  taken 
down,  our  blankets  and  duffle  packed.  We  were  regu- 
larly on  the  water  an  hour  before  Pippa  stirred  a  foot. 
And  then  there  were  four  or  five  hours  of  paddling, 
perhaps  in  windy  water.  And  then  a  new  camp  was 
made.  Our  day  matched  the  exertions  of  a  traveling 
circus.  In  default  of  expert  knowledge  I  carried 
water,  cut  brouse  for  the  beds  and  washed  dishes. 
Little  jobs,  of  an  unpleasant  nature,  were  found  for 
me  as  often  as  I  paused.  Others  did  the  showy,  light- 
fingered  work.  I  was  housemaid  and  roustabout  from 
sunrise  to  weary  sunset.  I  was  never  allowed  to  rest. 
Nor  was  I  permitted  to  flop  the  bacon,  which  I  con- 
sider an  easy,  sedentary  occupation.  I  acquired, 
unjustly, — let  us  agree  in  this! — a  reputation  for  lazi- 
ness, because  one  day  I  sat  for  several  hours  in  a  blue- 
berry patch,  when  work  was  going  forward. 

And  then  one  night,  when  all  labor  seemed  done 
and  there  was  an  hour  of  twilight,  I  was  asked  to  read 
aloud.  Everyone  settled  himself  for  a  feast  of  Shake- 
speare's sonnets.  But  it  was  my  ill  luck  that  I  selected 
the  sonnet  that  begins,  "Weary  with  toil,  I  haste  me  to 
my  bed."  A  great  shout  went  up — a  shout  of  derision. 
That  night  I  read  no  more.  I  carried  up  six  or  eight 
pails  of  water  from  the  spring  and  followed  the 
sonneteer's  example. 

There  are  a  great  many  books  that  I  would  hke  to 
read  of  a  winter's  evening  if  I  could  stay  awake — all 
of  the  histories,  certainly,  of  Fiske.     And  Rhodes, 


lU  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

perhaps.  I  might  even  read  "The  Four  Horsemen," 
"Trilby"  and  "The  Education  of  Henry  Adams,"  so 
as  not  to  be  alone.  It  is  snug  by  the  fire,  and  the  very 
v^^ind  taps  on  the  window  as  if  it  asked  for  invitation 
to  share  the  hearth.  I  could  compile  a  list,  a  five-foot 
shelf,  for  these  nights  of  tempest.  There  is  a  writer 
in  a  Boston  paper  who  tells  us  every  week  the 
books  that  he  would  like  to  read.  His  is  a  prospect 
rather  than  a  review,  for  it  is  based  on  his  anticipation. 
But  does  he  ever  read  these  books?  Perhaps  he,  too, 
dozes.  His  book  slips  off  his  knee  and  his  chin  drops 
to  comfort  on  his  front.  Let  me  inform  him  that  a 
wood  fire — if  the  logs  are  hardly  dry — is  a  corrective. 
Its  debility,  as  water  oozes  at  the  end,  requires  attend- 
ance every  five  minutes.  Even  Wardle's  fat  boy  at 
Manor  Farm  could  have  lasted  through  the  evening  if 
the  poker  had  been  forced  into  his  hand  so  often.  "I 
read,"  says  Tennyson,  "before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 
shade."  And  wasn't  Alice  sitting  with  her  book  when 
she  fell  asleep  and  down  the  rabbit-hole?  "And  so 
to  bed,"  writes  Pepys.    He,  too,  then,  is  one  of  us. 

I  wonder  if  that  phrase — he  who  runs  may  read — 
has  not  a  deeper  significance  than  lies  upon  the  sur- 
face. Perhaps  the  prophet — ^was  it  Habakkuk  who 
wrote  the  line? — it  does  not  matter — perhaps  the 
bearded  prophet  had  himself  the  sleepy  habit,  and  kept 
moving  briskly  for  remedy  around  his  study.  I  can 
see  him  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  with  book  in 
hand — his  whiskers  veering  in  the  wind — quickening 


ON  DROPPING  OFF  TO  SLEEP  U5 

his  lively  pace  around  the  kerosene  lamp,  steering 
among  the  chairs,  stumbling  across  the  cat — 

In  ambition  I  am  a  night-hawk.  I  would  like  to  sit 
late  with  old  books  and  reconstruct  the  forgotten 
world  at  midnight.  These  bells  that  I  hear  now  across 
the  darkness  are  the  mad  bells  of  Saint  Bartholomew. 
With  that  distant  whistle — a  train  on  the  B.  &  O. — 
Guy  Fawkes  gathers  his  villains  to  light  the  fuse. 
Through  my  window  from  the  night  I  hear  the  sounds 
of  far-off  wars  and  kingdoms  falling. 

And  I  would  like,  also,  at  least  in  theory,  to  sit 
with  a  merry  company  of  friends,  and  let  the  cannikin 
clink  till  dawn. 

I  would  like  to  walk  the  streets  of  our  crowded  city 
and  marvel  at  the  windows — ^to  speculate  on  the  thou- 
sand dramas  that  weave  their  webs  in  our  common  life. 
Here  is  mirth  that  shakes  its  sides  when  its  neighbors 
sleep.  Here  is  a  hungry  student  whose  ambition 
builds  him  rosy  castles.  Here  is  a  light  at  a  fevered 
pillow  where  hope  burns  dim. 

On  some  fairy  night  I  would  wish  to  wander  in  the 
woods,  when  there  are  dancing  shadows  and  a  moon. 
Here  Oberon  holds  state.  Here  Titania  sleeps.  I 
would  cross  a  silver  upland.  I  would  stand  on  a 
barren  hill-top,  like  the  skipper  of  the  world  in  its 
whirling  voyage. 

But  these  high  accomplishments  are  beyond  me. 
Habakkuk  and  the  fat  boy,  and  Alice  and  Pepys  and 
I,  and  all  the  others,  must  be  content.  Even  the  wet 
wood  and  the  poker  fail.    The  very  wind  grows  sleepy 


U6  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

at  the  window.  Our  chins  fall  forward.  Our  books 
slip  off  our  knees. 

And  now,  at  last,  our  buoyant  bed  floats  among  the 
stars.  I  have  cast  off  the  moorings  of  the  sluggish 
world.  Earth's  harbor  lights  are  at  the  stern.  The 
Pleiades  mark  the  channel  to  the  moon — 

Poof!  Sleep  draws  again  its  dark  curtain  across 
the  glittering  pageant. 


Who  Was  Jeremy? 

WHO  was  Jeremy  Bentham?  I  have  run 
on  his  name  recently  two  or  three  times. 
I  could,  of  course,  find  out.  The  Encyclo- 
pedia— volume  Aus  to  Bis — ^would  enlighten  me. 
Right  now,  downstairs  in  the  bookcase — up  near  the 
top  where  the  shabby  books  are  kept — among  the  old 
Baedekers — there  is  a  life  of  him  by  Leslie  Stephen. 
No !  That  is  a  life  of  Hobbes.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  Hobbes  either.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  wrote 
the  "Leviathan,"  whatever  that  was.  But  there  is  a 
Bentham  somewhere  around  the  house.  But  I  have 
not  read  it. 

In  a  rough  way  I  know  who  Bentham  was.  He 
lived  perhaps  a  hundred  years  ago  and  he  had  a  theory 
of  utility.  Utility  was  to  clean  the  infected  world. 
Even  the  worst  of  us  were  to  rise  out  of  the  tub  white 
and  perfect.  It  was  Bentham  who  wished  to  revisit 
the  world  in  a  hundred  years  to  see  how  sweet  and 
clean  we  had  become.  He  was  to  utility  what  Malthus 
was  to  population.  Malthus !  There  is  another  hard 
one.  It  is  the  kind  of  name  that  is  cut  round  the 
top  of  a  new  City  Hall  to  shame  citizens  by  their 
ignorance. 

I  can  go  downstairs  this  minute  and  look  up  Ben- 
tham. Is  it  worth  while?  But  then  I  might  be  called 
to  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  article,  or  I  might  be 


1J^8  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

wanted  to  move  the  refrigerator.  There  is  a  musty 
smell,  it  seems,  in  the  drain  pipe,  and  the  stubborn 
casters  are  turned  sidewise.  It  hardly  seems  worth 
the  chance  and  effort. 

There  are  a  great  many  things  that  really  do  stir 
my  curiosity,  and  even  those  things  I  don't  look  up. 
Or  tardily,  after  my  ignorance  has  been  exposed.  The 
other  day  the  moon  arose — as  a  topic — at  the  round 
table  of  the  club  where  I  eat  lunch.  It  had  really 
never  occurred  to  me  that  we  had  never  seen  its  other 
side,  that  we  never  could — except  by  a  catastrophe — 
unless  it  smashed  into  a  planet  and  was  thrown  heels 
up.  How  does  it  keep  itself  so  balanced  that  one  face 
is  forever  hid?  Try  to  roll  an  apple  around  a  pump- 
kin and  meanwhile  spin  the  pumpkin.  Try  this  on 
your  carpet.    I  take  my  hat  off  to  the  moon. 

I  have  been  very  ignorant  of  the  moon.  All  of 
these  years  I  have  regarded  it  as  a  kindly  creature  that 
showed  itself  now  and  then  merely  on  a  whim.  It  was 
just  jogging  around  of  an  evening,  so  I  supposed,  and 
looked  us  up.  It  was  an  old  neighbor  who  dropped  in 
after  dinner,  as  it  were,  for  a  bit  of  gossip  and  an 
apple.  But  even  the  itinerant  knife-grinder — whose 
whirling  wheel  I  can  hear  this  minute  below  me  in  the 
street — even  the  knife-grinder  has  a  route.  He  knows 
at  what  season  we  grow  dull.  What  necessity,  then, 
of  ours  beckons  to  the  moon?  Perhaps  it  comes  with 
a  silver  brush  to  paint  the  earth  when  it  grows  shabby 
with  the  traffic  of  the  day.  Perhaps  it  shows  itself  to 
stir  a  lover  who  halts  coldly  in  his  suit.    The  pink  god, 


WHO  WAS  JEREMY?  U9 

they  say,  shoots  a  dangerous  arrow  when  the  moon 
isfuU. 

The  extent  of  my  general  ignorance  is  amazing. 
And  yet,  I  suppose,  by  persistence  and  energy  I  could 
mend  it.  Old  Doctor  Dwight  used  to  advise  those  of 
us  who  sat  in  his  classroom  to  read  a  hard  book  for 
half  an  hour  each  day.  How  those  half  hours  would 
mount  up  through  the  years!  What  a  prodigious 
background  of  history,  of  science,  of  literature,  one 
would  gain  as  the  years  revolved!  If  I  had  followed 
his  advice  I  would  today  be  bursting  with  knowledge 
of  Jeremy  Bentham;  I  would  never  have  been  tripped 
upon  the  moon. 

How  ignorant  most  of  us  are  of  the  times  in  which 
we  live!  We  see  the  smoke  and  fires  of  revolution  in 
Europe.  We  hear  the  cries  of  famine  and  disease,  but 
our  perception  is  lost  in  the  general  smudge.  How  are 
the  Balkans  parceled?  How  is  the  nest  of  nationali- 
ties along  the  Danube  disposed?  This  morning  there 
is  revolt  in  Londonderry.  What  parties  are  opposite 
in  the  quarrel?  Trouble  brews  in  Chile.  Is  Tacni- 
Arica  a  district  or  a  mountain  range?  The  Aland 
Islands  breed  war  in  the  north.  Today  there  is  a 
casualty  list  from  Bagdad.  The  Bolsheviki  advance 
on  Warsaw.  Those  of  us  who  are  cobblers  tap  our 
shoes  unruffled,  tailors  stitch,  we  bargain  in  the  market 
— all  of  us  go  about  on  little  errands  without  excite- 
ment when  the  news  is  brought. 

And  then  there  is  mechanics.  This  is  now  so  pre- 
eminently a  mechanical  world  that  no  one  ought  to  be 


150  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

entirely  ignorant  of  cylinders  and  cogs  and  carbure- 
tors. And  yet  my  own  motor  is  as  dark  as  Africa. 
I  am  as  ignorant  of  a  carburetor  as  of  the  black 
stomach  of  a  zebra.  Once  a  carpenter's  bench  was 
given  me  at  Christmas,  fitted  up  with  all  manner  of 
tricky  tools.  The  bookshelves  I  built  in  my  first  high 
enthusiasm  have  now  gone  down  to  the  basement  to 
hold  the  canned  fruit,  where  they  lean  with  rickets 
against  the  wall.  Even  the  box  I  made  to  hold  the 
milk  bottles  on  the  back  steps  has  gone  the  way  of 
flesh.  Any  chicken-coop  of  mine  would  topple  in  the 
wind.  Well-instructed  hens  would  sit  around  on 
fence-posts  and  cackle  at  my  efforts  with  a  saw. 
Certainly,  if  a  company  of  us  were  thrown  on  a  desert 
island,  it  would  not  be  I  who  proved  the  Admirable 
Crichton.  Not  by  my  shrewdness  could  we  build  a 
hut.  Robinson  Crusoe  contrived  a  boat.  If  I  tied  a 
raft  together  it  would  be  sure  to  sink. 

Where  are  the  Virgin  Islands  ?  What  makes  a  tea- 
pot bubble  ?    What  forces  bring  the  rain  and  tempest  ? 

In  cooking  I  go  no  farther  than  an  egg.  Birds,  to 
me,  are  either  sparrows  or  robins.  I  know  an  elm  and 
a  maple,  but  hemlocks  and  pines  and  firs  mix  me  up. 
I  am  not  to  be  trusted  to  pull  the  weeds.  Up  would 
come  the  hollyhocks.  Japanese  prints  and  Chinese 
vases  sit  in  a  world  above  me. 

I  can  thump  myself  in  front  without  knowing 
whether  I  jar  my  stomach  or  my  liver.  I  have  no 
notion  where  my  food  goes  when  it  disappears.  When 
once  I  have  tilted  my  pudding  off  its  spoon  my  knowl- 


WHO  WAS  JEREMY?  151 

edge  ceases.  It  is  as  a  child  of  Israel  on  journey  in 
the  wilderness.  Does  it  pass  through  my  thorax? 
And  where  do  my  lungs  branch  off? 

I  know  nothing  of  etchings,  and  I  sit  in  gloomy 
silence  when  friends  toss  Whistler  and  Rembrandt 
across  the  table.  I  know  who  our  mayor  is,  but  I 
scratch  my  head  to  name  our  senator.  And  why  does 
the  world  crumple  up  in  hills  and  mountains  ? 

I  could  look  up  Jeremy  Bentham  and  hereafter  I 
would  know  all  about  him.  And  I  could  look  up  the 
moon.  And  Hobbes.  And  Leslie  Stephen,  who 
wrote  a  book  about  him.  And  a  man  named  Maitland 
who  wrote  a  life  of  Stephen.  Somebody  must  have 
written  about  Maitland.  I  could  look  him  up,  too. 
And  I  could  read  about  the  Balkans  and  tell  my  neigh- 
bors whether  they  are  tertiary  or  triassic.  I  could 
pursue  the  thorax  to  its  lair.  Saws  and  chicken-coops, 
no  doubt,  are  an  engaging  study.  I  might  take  a  tree- 
book  to  the  country,  or  seek  an  instructive  job  in  a 
garage. 

But  what  is  the  use?  Right  in  front  of  Jeremy 
Bentham,  in  Aus  to  Bis,  is  George  Bentham,  an  Eng- 
lish botanist.  To  be  thorough  I  would  have  to  read 
about  him  also.  Then  following  along  is  Bentivoglio, 
and  Benzene — a  long  article  on  benzene.  And  Beo- 
wulf! No  educated  person  should  be  quite  ignorant 
of  him.  Albrecht  Bitzius  was  a  Swiss  novelist.  Some- 
how he  has  escaped  me  entirely.  And  Susanna 
Blamire,  "the  muse  of  Cumberland" !  She  sounds  en- 
gaging.   Who  is  there  so  incurious  that  he  would  not 


152  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

give  an  evening  to  Borneo?  And  the  Bryophyta? — 
which  I  am  glad  to  learn  include  "the  mosses  and  the 
liverworts."    Dear  me!  it  is  quite  discouraging. 

And  then,  when  I  am  gaining  information  on 
Hobbes,  the  Hittites,  right  in  front,  take  my  eye. 
Hilarius  wrote  "light  verses  of  the  goliardic  type" — 
whatever  that  means.  And  the  hippopotamus!  "the 
largest  representative  of  the  non-ruminating  artio- 
dactyle  ungulate  mammals."  I  must  sit  with  the 
hippopotamus  and  worm  his  secret. 

And  after  I  have  learned  to  use  the  saw,  I  would 
have  to  take  up  the  plane.  And  then  the  auger.  And 
Whistler.    And  Japanese  prints.    And  a  bird  book. 

It  is  very  discouraging. 

I  stand  with  Pope.  Certainly,  unless  one  is  very 
thirsty  and  has  a  great  deal  of  vacant  time,  it  is  best 
to  avoid  the  Pierian  spring. 

Jeremy  can  go  and  hang  himself.  I  am  learning  to 
play  golf. 


A  Chapter  for  Children. 

ONCE  upon  a  time — for  this  is  the  way  a  story 
should  begin — there  lived  in  a  remote  part 
of  the  world  a  family  of  children  whose 
father  was  busy  all  day  making  war  against  his 
enemies.  And  so,  as  their  mother,  also,  was  busy 
(clubs,  my  dear,  and  parties) ,  they  were  taken  care  of 
and  had  their  noses  wiped — but  in  a  most  kindly  way 
— by  an  old  man  who  loved  them  very  much. 

Now  this  old  man  had  been  a  jester  in  his  youth. 
For  these  were  the  children  of  a  king  and  so,  of  course, 
they  had  a  jester,  just  as  you  and  I,  if  we  are  rich, 
have  a  cook.  He  had  been  paid  wages — I  don't  know 
how  many  kywatsMes — merely  to  stand  in  the  dining- 
room  and  say  funny  things,  and  nobody  asked  him  to 
jimip  around  for  the  salt  or  to  hurry  up  the  waffles. 
And  he  didn't  even  brush  up  the  crumbs  afterward. 

I  do  not  happen  to  know  the  children  of  any  king — 
there  is  not  a  single  king  living  on  our  street — yet, 
except  for  their  clothes,  they  are  much  like  other 
children.  Of  course  they  wear  shinier  clothes.  It  is 
not  the  shininess  that  comes  from  sliding  down  the 
stair  rail,  but  a  royal  shininess,  as  though  it  were 
always  eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning  and  the 
second  bell  of  the  Methodist  church  were  ringing,  with 
several  deacons  on  the  steps.  For  if  one's  father  is  a 
king,  ambassadors  and  generals  keep  dropping  in  all 


15J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  time,  and  queens,  dressed  up  in  brocade  so  stiff 
you  can  hear  them  breathe. 

One  day  the  children  had  been  sKding  down  hill  in 
the  snow — on  Flexible  Flyers,  painted  red — and  their 
mittens  and  stockings  were  wet.  So  the  old  man  felt 
their  feet — tickling  their  toes — and  set  them,  bare- 
legged, in  a  row,  in  front  of  the  nursery  fire.  And  he 
told  them  a  story. 

"O  children  of  the  king!"  he  began,  and  with  that 
he  wiped  their  noses  all  round,  for  it  had  been  a  cold 
day,  when  even  the  best-mannered  persons  snuffle  now 
and  then.  "O  children  of  the  king!"  he  began  again, 
and  then  he  stopped  to  light  a  taper  at  the  fire.  For 
he  was  a  wise  old  man  and  he  knew  that  when  there  is 
excitement  in  a  tale,  a  light  will  keep  the  bogies  off. 
This  old  man  could  tell  a  story  so  that  your  eyes 
opened  wider  and  wider,  as  they  do  when  Annie  brings 
in  ice-cream  with  raspberry  sauce.  And  once  in  a 
while  he  said  Odd  Zooks,  and  God-a-Mercy  when  he 
forgot  himself. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  he  began,  "there  lived  a  king 
in  a  far-off  country.  To  get  to  that  country,  O  chil- 
dren of  a  king,  you  would  have  to  turn  and  turn,  and 
spell  out  every  signpost.  And  then  you  climb  up  the 
sides  of  seventeen  mountains,  and  swim  twenty-three 
streams  precisely.  Here  you  wait  till  dusk.  But 
just  before  the  lamps  are  lighted,  you  get  down  on  all- 
fours — if  you  are  a  boy  (girls,  I  believe,  don't  have 
all- fours) — and  crawl  under  the  sofa.  Keep  straight 
on  for  an  hour  or  so  with  the  coal-scuttle  three  points 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  155 

starboard,  but  be  careful  not  to  let  your  knees  touch 
the  carpet,  for  that  wears  holes  in  them  and  spoils  the 
magic.  Then  get  nurse  to  pull  you  out  by  the  hind 
legs — and — there  you  are. 

"Once  upon  a  time,  then,  there  lived  a  king  with  a 
ferocious  moustache  and  a  great  sword  which  rattled 
when  he  walked  around  the  house.  He  made  scratches 
all  over  the  piano  legs,  but  no  one  felt  like  giving  him 
a  paddy- whack.    This  king  had  a  pretty  daughter. 

"Now  it  is  a  sad  fact  that  there  was  a  war  going  on. 
It  was  between  this  king  who  had  the  pretty  daughter 
and  another  king  who  hved  near  by,  on  an  adjoining 
farm,  so  to  speak.  And  the  first  king  had  sworn  by 
his  halidome — and  at  this  his  court  turned  pale — that 
he  would  take  his  enemy  by  his  blasted  nose. 

"Both  of  these  kings  lived  in  castles  whose  walls 
were  thick  and  whose  towers  were  high.  And  around 
their  tops  were  curious  indentings  that  looked  as  your 
teeth  would  look  if  every  other  one  were  pulled. 
These  castles  had  moats  with  lily  pads  and  green 
water  in  them,  which  was  not  at  all  healthful,  except 
that  persons  in  those  days  did  not  know  about  it  and 
were  consequently  just  as  well  off.  And  there  were 
jousting  fields  and  soup  caldrons  (with  a  barrel  of 
animal  crackers)  and  a  tun  of  lemonade  (six  glasses 
to  a  lemon) — everything  to  make  life  comfortable. 

"Here's  a  secret.  The  other  king  who  lived  near 
by  was  in  love  with  the  first  king's  daughter.  Here 
are  two  kings  fighting  each  other,  and  one  of  them  in 


156  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

love  with  the  other's  daughter,  but  not  saying  a  word 
about  it. 

"Now  the  second  king — ^the  one  in  love — was  not 
very  fierce,  and  his  name  was  King  Muffin — ^which 
suggests  pleasant  thoughts — whereas  the  first  king 
with  the  beautiful  daughter  was  called  King  Odd 
Zooks,  Zooks  the  Sixth,  for  he  was  the  sixth  of  his 
powerful  line.  And  my  story  is  to  show  how  King 
Muffin  got  the  better  of  King  Zooks  and  married  his 
daughter.  It  was  a  clever  piece  of  business,  for  the 
walls  of  the  castle  were  high,  and  the  window  of  the 
Princess  was  way  above  the  trees.  King  Muffin  didn't 
even  know  which  her  window  was,  for  it  did  not  have 
any  lace  curtains  and  it  looked  no  better  than  the 
cook's,  except  that  the  cook  sometimes  on  Monday  tied 
her  stockings  to  the  curtain  cord  to  dry.  And  of 
course  if  King  Muffin  had  come  openly  to  the  castle, 
the  guards  would  have  cut  him  all  to  bits. 

"One  day  in  June  King  Muffin  was  out  on  horse- 
back. He  had  left  his  crown  at  home  and  was  wearing 
his  third-best  clothes,  so  you  would  have  thought  that 
he  was  just  an  ordinary  man.  But  he  was  a  good 
horseman;  that  is,  he  wasn't  thinking  every  minute 
about  falling  off,  but  sat  loosely,  as  one  might  sit  in 
a  rocking-chair. 

"The  country  was  beautiful  and  green,  and  in  the 
sky  there  were  puffy  clouds  that  looked  the  way  a  pop- 
over  looks  before  it  turns  brown — a  big  pop-over  that 
would  stuff  even  a  hungry  giant  up  to  his  ears.  And 
there  was  a  wind  that  wiggled  everything,  and  the 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  157 

noise  of  a  brook  among  the  trees.  Also,  there  were 
birds,  but  you  must  not  ask  me  their  names,  for  I  am 
not  good  at  birds. 

"King  Muffin,  although  he  was  a  brave  man,  loved 
a  pleasant  day.  So  he  turned  back  his  collar  at  the 
throat  in  order  that  the  wind  might  tickle  his  neck 
and  he  dropped  his  reins  on  his  horse's  back  in  a  care- 
less way  that  wouldn't  be  possible  on  a  street  where 
there  were  trolley-cars.  In  this  fashion  he  rode  on 
for  several  miles  and  sang  to  himself  a  great  many 
songs.  Sometimes  he  knew  the  words  and  sometimes 
he  said  turn  turn  te  turn  turn,  but  he  kept  to  the  tune. 

"King  Muffin  enjoyed  his  ride  so  much  that  before 
he  knew  it  he  was  out  of  his  own  kingdom  and  at  least 
six  parasangs  in  the  kingdom  of  King  Zooks.  My 
dear,  use  your  handkerchief! 

"And  even  then  King  Muffin  would  not  have 
realized  it,  except  that  on  turning  a  corner  he  saw  a 
young  man  lying  under  a  tree  in  a  suit  that  was  half 
green  and  half  yellow.  King  Muffin  knew  him  at  once 
to  be  a  jester — but  whose?  King  Zooks's  jester,  of 
course,  his  mortal  enemy.  For  jesters  have  to  go  off 
by  themselves  once  in  a  while  to  think  up  new  jokes, 
and  no  other  king  lived  within  riding  distance. 
Really,  the  jester  was  thinking  of  rhymes  to  zithern, 
which  is  the  name  of  the  curious  musical  instrument 
he  carried,  and  is  a  little  like  a  mandolin,  only  harder 
to  play.  It  cannot  be  learned  in  twelve  easy  lessons. 
And  the  jester  was  making  a  sorry  business  of  it,  for 


158  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

it  is  a  difficult  word  to  find  rhymes  to,  as  you  would 
know  if  you  tried.    He  was  terribly  woeful. 

"King  Muffin  said  'Whoa'  and  stopped  his  horse. 
Then  he  said  'Good  morning,  fellow,'  in  the  kind  of 
superior  tone  that  kings  use. 

"The  jester  got  off  the  ground  and,  as  he  did  not 
know  that  Muffin  was  a  king,  he  sneezed;  for  the 
ground  was  damp.  It  was  a  slow  sneeze  in  coming, 
for  the  ground  was  not  very  wet,  and  he  stood  waiting 
for  it  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  eyes  squinting.  So 
King  Muffin  waited  too,  and  had  a  moment  to  think. 
And  as  kings  think  very  fast,  very  many  thoughts 
came  to  him.  So,  by  the  time  the  sneeze  had  gone  off 
like  a  shower  bath,  and  before  the  pipes  filled  up  for 
another,  some  interesting  things  had  occurred  to  him. 
Well !  things  about  the  Princess  and  how  he  might  get 
a  chance  to  speak  with  her.    But  he  said : 

"  'Ho,  ho!  Methinks  King  Zooks's  jester  has  the 
snuffles.' 

"At  this,  Jeppo — for  that  was  the  jester's  name — 
looked  up  with  a  wry  face,  for  he  still  kept  a  sneeze 
inside  him  which  he  couldn't  dislodge. 

"  'By  my  boots  and  spurs!'  the  King  cried  again, 
'you  are  a  woeful  jester.' 

"Jeppo  was  woeful.  For  on  this  very  night  King 
Zooks  was  to  give  a  grand  dinner — ^not  a  simple 
dinner  such  as  you  have  at  home  with  Annie  passing 
dishes  and  rattling  the  pie  around  the  pantry — but  a 
dinner  for  a  hundred  persons,  generals  and  ambassa- 
dors, all  dressed  in  lace  and  eating  from  gold  plates. 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  159 


And  of  course  everyone  would  look  to  Jeppo  for 
something  funny — maybe  a  new  song  with  twenty 
verses  and  a  rol-de-rol-rol  chorus^  which  everyone 
could  sing  even  if  he  didn't  know  the  words.  And 
Jeppo  didn't  know  a  single  new  thing.  He  had  tried 
to  write  something,  but  had  stuck  while  trying  to  think 
of  a  rhyme  for  zithern.  So  of  course  he  was  woeful. 
And  King  Muffin  knew  it. 

"All  this  while  King  Muffin  was  thinking  hard, 
although  he  didn't  scowl  once,  for  some  persons  can 
think  without  scowling.  He  wished  so  much  to  see 
the  Princess,  and  yet  he  knew  that  if  he  chmbed  the 
tallest  tree  he  couldn't  reach  her  window.  And  even 
if  he  found  a  ladder  long  enough,  as  likely  as  not  he 
would  lean  it  up  against  the  cook's  window,  not  notic- 
ing the  stockings  on  the  curtain  cord.  King  Muffin 
should  have  looked  glum.    But  presently  he  smiled. 

"  'Jeppo,'  he  said,  'what  would  you  say  if  I  offered 
to  change  places  with  you?  Here  you  are  fretting 
about  that  song  of  yours  and  the  dinner  only  a  few 
hours  off.  You  will  be  flogged  tomorrow,  sure,  for 
being  so  dull  tonight.  Just  change  clothes  with  me 
and  go  off  and  enjoy  yourself.  Sit  in  a  tavern! 
Spend  these  kywatskies!'  Here  King  Muffin  rattled 
his  pocket.  'I'll  take  your  place.  I  know  a  dozen 
songs,  and  they  will  tickle  your  king  until,  goodness 
me!  he  will  cry  into  his  soup.'  King  Muffin  really 
didn't  give  King  Zooks  credit  for  ordinary  manners, 
but  then  he  was  his  mortal  enemy,  and  pre j  'iced. 

"Well,  Jeppo  was  terribly  woeful  and  that  word 


160  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

zithern  was  bothering  him.  There  was  pithern  and 
dithern  and  mithern.  He  had  tried  them  all,  but  none 
of  them  seemed  to  mean  anything.  So  he  looked  at 
King  Muffin,  who  sat  very  straight  on  his  horse,  for 
he  wasn't  at  all  afraid  of  him,  although  he  was  a  tall 
horse  and  had  nostrils  that  got  bigger  and  littler  all 
the  time;  and  back  legs  that  twitched.  Meanwhile 
King  Muffin  twirled  a  gold  chain  in  his  fingers.  Then 
Jeppo  looked  at  King  Muffin's  clothes  and  saw  that 
they  were  fashionable.  Then  he  looked  at  his  hat  and 
there  was  a  yellow  feather  in  it.  And  those  kywat- 
skies.  King  Muffin,  just  to  tease  him,  twirled  his 
moustache,  as  kings  will. 

"So  the  bargain  was  made.  There  was  a  thicket 
near,  so  dense  that  it  would  have  done  for  taking  off 
your  clothes  when  you  go  swimming.  In  this  thicket 
King  Muffin  and  Jeppo  exchanged  clothes.  Of 
course  Jeppo  had  trouble  with  the  buttons  for  he  had 
never  dressed  in  such  fine  clothes  before,  and  many  of 
a  king's  buttons  are  behind. 

"And  now,  when  the  exchange  was  made,  Jeppo 
inquired  where  he  would  find  an  expensive  tavern 
with  brass  pull-handles  on  the  lemonade  vat,  and  he 
rode  off,  licking  his  lips  and  jingling  his  kywatskies. 
But  King  Muffin,  dressed  as  a  jester,  vaulted  on  his 
horse  and  trotted  in  the  direction  of  King  Zooks's 
castle,  which  had  indentings  around  the  top  like  a  row 
of  teeth  if  every  other  one  were  pulled. 

"And  after  a  little  while  it  became  night.  It  is  my 
private  opinion,  my  dear,  which  I  shall  whisper  in  the 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  161 

middle  of  your  ear — the  outer  flap  being  merely  orna- 
mental and  for  'spection  purposes — that  the  sun  is 
afraid  of  the  dark,  because  you  never  see  him  around 
after  nightfall.  Bless  you,  he  goes  off  to  bed  before 
twilight  and  tucks  himself  to  the  chin  before  you  or  I 
would  even  think  of  lighting  a  candle.  And,  on  my 
word,  he  prefers  to  sleep  in  the  basement.  He  goes 
down  the  back  stairs  and  cuddles  behind  the  furnace. 
And  he  has  the  bad  habit,  mercy!  of  reading  in  bed. 
A  good  half  hour  after  he  should  be  sound  asleep,  you 
can  see  the  reflection  of  his  candle  on  the  evening 
clouds." 

At  this  point  the  old  man  paused  a  bit,  to  see  if  the 
children  were  still  awake.  Then  he  wiped  their  noses 
all  around,  not  forgetting  the  youngest  with  the  fat 
legs,  and  began  again. 

"During  all  this  time  King  Zooks  had  been  getting 
ready  for  the  party,  trying  on  shiny  coats,  and  getting 
his  silk  stockings  so  that  the  seams  at  the  back  went 
straight  up  and  didn't  wind  around,  which  is  the  way 
they  naturally  do  unless  you  are  particular.  And  he 
put  a  clean  handkerchief  into  every  pocket,  in  case  he 
sneezed  in  a  hurry — for  King  Zooks  was  a  lavish 
dresser. 

"His  wife  was  dressing  in  another  room,  keeping 
three  maids  busy  with  safety  pins  and  powder-puffs, 
and  getting  all  of  the  snarls  out  of  her  hair.  And,  in 
still  another  room  of  the  castle,  his  daughter  was 
dressing.  Now  his  wife  was  a  nice-looking  woman, 
like  nurse,  except  that  she  wore  stiff  brocade  and 


162  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

didn't  jounce.  But  his  daughter  was  beautiful  and 
didn't  need  a  powder-puff. 

"When  they  were  all  dressed  they  met  outside,  just 
to  ask  questions  of  one  another  about  handkerchiefs 
and  noses  and  behind  the  ears.  The  Queen,  also, 
wished  to  be  very  sure  that  there  wasn't  a  hole  in  the 
heel  of  her  stocking,  for  she  wore  black  stockings, 
which  makes  it  worse.  King  Zooks  was  fond  of  his 
wife  and  fond  of  his  daughter,  and  when  he  was  with 
them  he  did  not  look  so  fierce.  He  kissed  both  of 
them,  but  when  he  kissed  his  daughter — which  was  the 
better  fun — ^he  took  hold  of  her  nose — but  in  a  most 
kindly  way — so  that  her  face  wouldn't  sHp. 

"Then  they  went  down  the  marble  stairs,  with 
flunkies  bowing  up  and  down. 

"But  how  worried  King  Zooks  would  have  been  if 
he  had  known  that  at  that  very  moment  his  enemy, 
King  Muffin,  was  coming  into  the  castle,  disguised  as 
a  jester.  Nobody  stopped  King  Muffin,  for  wander- 
ing jesters  were  common  in  those  days. 

"And  now  the  party  started  with  all  its  might. 

"King  Zooks  offered  his  arm  to  the  wife  of  the  Am- 
bassador, and  Queen  Zooks  offered  hers  to  the  Gen- 
eral of  the  army.  There  was  a  fight  around  the  Prin- 
cess, but  she  said  eenie  meenie  minie  moe,  catch  a 
nigger  by  the  toe  and  counted  them  all  out  but  one. 
And  so  they  went  down  another  marble  stairway  to 
the  dining-room,  where  a  band  was  blowing  itself  red 
in  the  face — the  trombonist,  in  particular,  seeming  to 
be  in  great  distress. 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  163 

"And  where  was  King  Muffin? 

"King  Muffin  came  in  by  the  postern — the  back 
stoop,  my  dear — and  he  washed  his  hands  and  ears  at 
the  kitchen  sink  and  went  right  up  to  the  dining-room. 
And  there  he  was  standing  behind  the  King's  chair, 
where  King  Zooks  couldn't  see  him  but  the  Princess 
could.  You  can  see  from  this  what  a  crafty  person 
King  Muffin  was.  Queen  Zooks,  to  be  sure,  could  see 
him,  but  she  was  an  unsuspicious  person,  and  was  very 
hungry.  There  were  waffles  for  dinner,  and  when 
there  were  waffles  she  didn't  even  talk  very  much. 

"King  Muffin  was  very  funny.  He  told  jokes 
which  were  old  at  his  own  castle,  but  were  new  to  King 
Zooks.  And  King  Zooks,  thinking  he  was  a  real 
jester,  laughed  until  he  cried — only  his  tears  did  not 
get  into  his  soup,  for  by  that  time  the  soup  had  been 
cleared  away.  A  few  of  them,  however — just  a 
splatter — did  fall  on  his  fish,  but  it  didn't  matter  as  it 
was  a  salt  fish  anyway.  But  all  the  guests,  inasmuch 
as  they  were  eating  away  from  home,  had  to  be  more 
particular.  And  when  the  rol-de-rol-rol  choruses 
came,  how  King  Zooks  sang,  throwing  back  his  head 
and  forgetting  all  about  his  ferocious  moustache ! 

"No  one  enjoyed  the  fun  more  than  King  Muffin. 
Whenever  things  quieted  down  a  bit  he  said  something 
even  funnier  than  the  last.  But  during  all  this  time 
it  had  not  occurred  to  King  Zooks  to  inquire  for 
Jeppo,  or  to  ask  why  a  new  fool  stood  behind  his  chair. 
He  just  laughed  and  nudged  the  wife  of  the  Ambassa- 


16J^  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

dor  with  his  elbow  and  ate  his  waffles  and  enjoyed 
himself. 

"So  the  dinner  grew  merrier  and  merrier  until  at 
last  everyone  had  had  enough  to  eat.  They  would 
have  pushed  back  a  little  from  the  table  to  be  more 
comfortable  in  front,  except  for  their  manners.  King 
Zooks  was  the  last  to  finish,  for  the  dinner  ended  with 
ice-cream  and  he  was  fond  of  it.  He  didn't  have  it 
ordinary  days.  In  fact  he  was  so  eager  to  get  the  last 
bit  that  he  scraped  his  spoon  round  and  round  upon 
the  dish  until  Queen  Zooks  was  ashamed  of  him. 
When,  finally,  he  was  all  through,  the  guests  folded 
their  napkins  and  pushed  back  their  chairs  until  you 
never  heard  such  a  squeak.  A  few  of  them — but  these 
had  never  been  out  to  dinner  before — had  spilled 
crumbs  in  their  laps  and  had  to  brush  them  off. 

"And  now  there  was  a  dance. 

"So  King  Zooks  offered  his  arm  to  the  wife  of  the 
Ambassador  and  Queen  Zooks  offered  hers  to  the 
General  of  the  army,  and  they  started  up  the  marble 
stairway  to  the  ballroom.  But  what  should  King 
Muffin  do  but  skip  up  to  the  Princess  while  she  was 
still  smoothing  out  her  skirts.  (Yellow  organdie,  my 
dear,  and  it  musses  when  you  sit  on  it. )  Muffin  made 
a  low  bow  and  kissed  her  hand.  Then  he  asked  her 
for  the  first  dance.  It  was  so  preposterous  that  a 
jester  should  ask  her  to  dance  at  all,  that  everyone 
said  it  was  the  funniest  thing  he  had  done,  and  they 
went  into  a  gale  about  it  on  the  marble  stairway. 
Even  Queen  Zooks,  who  ordinarily  didn't  laugh  much 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  165 

at  jokes,  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  quite  loud 
■ — but  in  a  minute,  when  everybody  else  was  done. 
And  then  to  everyone's  surprise  the  Princess  con- 
sented to  dance  with  King  Muffin,  although  the  Gen- 
eral of  the  army  stood  by  in  a  kind  of  empty  fashion. 
But  everybody  was  so  merry,  and  in  particular  King 
Zooks,  that  no  one  minded. 

"King  Muffin,  when  he  danced  with  the  Princess, 
looked  at  her  very  hard  and  softly,  and  she  looked 
back  at  him  as  if  she  didn't  mind  it  a  bit.  Evidently 
she  knew  him  despite  his  disguise.  And  naturally  she 
knew  that  he  was  in  love  with  her. 

"Now  King  Muffin  hadn't  had  a  thing  to  eat,  for 
jesters  are  supposed  to  eat  at  a  little  table  afterwards. 
If  they  ate  at  the  big  table  they  would  forget  and  sing 
sometimes  with  their  mouths  full  and  you  know  how 
that  would  sound.  So  he  and  the  Princess  went  down- 
stairs to  the  pantry,  where  he  ate  seven  cream  puffs 
and  three  floating  islands,  one  after  the  other,  never 
spilling  a  bit  on  his  blouse.  He  called  them  'floatin' 
Irelands,'  having  learned  it  that  way  as  a  child,  his 
nurse  not  correcting  him.  Then  he  felt  better  and  they 
returned  to  the  ballroom,  where  the  dance  was  still 
going  on  with  all  its  might. 

"King  Muffin  took  the  Princess  out  on  the  balcony, 
which  was  the  place  where  young  gentlemen,  even  in 
those  days,  took  ladies  when  they  had  something  par- 
ticular to  say.  He  shut  the  door  carefully  and  looked 
all  around  to  make  sure  that  there  were  no  spies  about, 
under  the  chairs,  inside  the  vases.    He  even  wiggled 


166  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  rug  for  fear  that  there  might  be  a  trapdoor 
beneath. 

"Did  the  Princess  love  King  Muffin?  Of  course 
she  did.  But  she  wasn't  going  to  let  him  know  it  all 
at  once.  Ladies  never  do  things  like  that.  So  she 
looked  indifferent,  as  though  she  might  yawn  at  any 
moment.  Despite  that,  King  Muffin  told  her  what 
was  on  his  mind,  and  when  he  was  finished,  he  looked 
for  an  answer.  But  she  didn't  say  anything,  but  just 
sat  quiet  and  pretended  there  was  a  button  off  her 
dress.  So  King  Muffin  told  it  again,  and  moved  up  a 
bit.  And  this  time  her  head  nodded  ever  so  little.  But 
he  saw  it.  So  he  reached  down  in  his  side  pocket,  so 
far  that  he  had  to  straighten  out  his  leg  to  get  to  the 
bottom.  He  brought  up  a  ring.  Then  he  slipped  it 
on  her  finger,  the  next  to  the  longest  one  on  her  left 
hand.  After  that  he  kissed  her  in  a  most  affectionate 
way. 

"This  was  all  very  well,  but  of  course  King  Zooks 
would  never  consent  to  their  marriage.  And  if  he 
discovered  that  the  new  jester  was  King  Muffin,  his 
guards  would  cut  him  all  to  slivers.  For  a  minute 
they  were  woeful.  Then  a  bright  idea  came  to  King 
Muffin— 

"Meanwhile  the  dance  had  been  going  on  with  all 
its  might.  First  the  General  of  the  army  danced  with 
Queen  Zooks.  He  was  a  very  manly  dancer  and  was 
quite  stiff  from  the  waist  up,  and  she  bounced  around 
on  tip-toe.  Then  the  Ambassador  danced  with  her, 
but  his  sword  kept  getting  in  her  way.    Then  both  of 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  167 

them,  having  done  their  duty,  looked  around  for  the 
Princess.  They  went  to  the  lemonade  room,  for  that 
was  the  first  place  naturally  to  look.  Then  they  went 
to  the  cardroom,  where  the  older  persons  were  playing 
casino,  and  were  sitting  very  solemn,  as  if  it  were  not 
a  party  at  all. 

"Then  they  went  to  King  Zooks,  who  was  jiggling 
on  his  toes,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  full  and  happy. 
'Where  is  your  daughter,  Majestical  Majesty?'  they 
asked.  But  as  King  Zooks  didn't  know  he  joined  the 
search,  and  Queen  Zooks,  too.  But  she  wasn't  much 
good  at  it,  for  she  had  a  long  train  and  she  couldn't 
turn  a  corner  sharp,  although  her  maids  trotted  after 
her  and  whisked  it  about  as  fast  as  possible. 

"But  they  couldn*t  find  the  Princess  anywhere 
inside  the  castle. 

"After  a  while  it  occurred  to  King  Zooks  that  the 
cook  might  know.  She  had  gone  to  bed — leaving  her 
dishes  until  morning — so  up  they  climbed.  She 
answered  from  under  the  covers,  'Whajuwant?'  which 
shows  that  she  didn't  talk  English  and  was  probably 
a  Spanish  cook  or  an  Indian  princess  captured  very 
young.  So  she  got  up,  all  excited.  My!  how  she 
scuffed  around,  looking  for  her  slippers,  trying  to  find 
her  clothes  and  getting  one  or  two  things  on  wrong 
side  out !  She  was  so  confused  that  she  thought  it  was 
morning  and  brushed  her  teeth. 

"By  this  time  an  hour  had  passed  and  King 
Zooks  was  fidgety.    He  told  his  red-faced  band  to  lean 


168  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

their  trombones  and  other  things  up  against  the  wall, 
so  that  he  could  think.  Then  he  stroked  his  chin,  while 
the  court  stood  by  and  tried  to  think  also.  Finally  the 
King  sent  a  herald  to  proclaim  around  the  castle  how 
fidgety  he  was  and  that  his  daughter  must  be  brought 
to  him.  But  the  Princess  was  not  found.  Meantime 
the  band  ate  ice-cream  and  cocoanut  macaroons,  and 
appeared  to  enjoy  itself. 

"In  a  tall  tower  that  stands  high  above  the  trees 
there  was  a  great  clock,  and,  by  and  by,  it  began  to 
strike  the  hour.  It  did  not  stop  until  it  had  struck 
ten  times.  So  you  see  it  was  growing  late  and  the 
King  had  the  right  to  be  getting  fidgety.  When  the 
clock  had  done,  those  guests  who  were  not  in  the  habit 
of  sitting  up  so  late,  began  to  grow  sleepy;  only,  of 
course,  they  did  not  yawn  out  loud,  but  behind  fans 
and  things. 

"Meanwhile  King  Muffin  had  gone  downstairs  to 
the  stable.  He  brought  out  his  horse  with  the  flaring 
nostrils  and  another  horse  also.  He  took  them  around 
to  the  Princess,  who  sat  waiting  for  him  on  a  marble 
bench  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree. 

"  'Climb  up,  beautiful  Princess,'  he  said. 

"She  hopped  into  her  saddle  and  he  into  his.  They 
were  off  like  the  wind. 

"They  heard  the  clock  strike  ten  and  they  saw  the 
great  tower  rising  above  the  castle  with  the  silver  moon 
upon  it,  but  they  galloped  on  and  on.  Through  the 
forest  they  galloped,  over  bridges  and  streams.    And 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN  169 

the  moon  climbed  off  the  tower  and  kept  with  them — 
as  it  does  with  all  good  folk — plunging  through  the 
clouds  like  a  ship  upon  the  ocean.  And  still  they 
galloped  on.  Presently  they  met  Jeppo  returning 
from  the  tavern  with  the  brass  pull-handles.  ' Yo,  ho !' 
called  out  the  King,  and  they  passed  him  in  a  flash. 
Clackety-clach-clack,  clachety-clach-clack,  clack-clack, 
clackety-clack! 

"And  peasants,  who  usually  slept  right  through  the 
night,  awoke  at  the  sound  of  their  hoofs  and  although 
they  were  very  sleepy,  they  ran  and  looked  out  of 
their  windows — being  careful  to  put  on  slippers  so 
as  not  to  get  the  snuffles.  And  King  Muffin  and  the 
Princess  galloped  by  with  the  moonlight  upon  them, 
and  the  peasants  wondered  who  they  were.  But  as 
they  were  very  sleepy,  presently  they  went  back  to 
bed  without  finding  out.  One  of  them  did,  however, 
stumble  against  a  chair,  right  on  the  toe,  and  had  to 
light  a  candle  to  see  if  it  were  worth  mending. 

"But  in  the  morning  the  peasants  found  a  bauble 
near  the  lodge-gate,  a  cap  and  bells  on  the  ravine 
bridge,  and  on  the  long  road  to  the  border  of  King 
Muffin's  land  they  found  a  jester's  coat. 

"And  to  this  day,  although  many  years  have  passed, 
their  children  and  their  children's  children,  on  the  way 
from  school,  gather  the  lilies  of  the  valley  which 
flourish  in  the  woods  and  along  the  roads.  And  they 
think  that  they  are  jesters'  bells  which  were  scattered 
in  the  flight." 


170 


HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 


Whereupon  the  old  man,  having  finished  his  story, 
wiped  the  noses  of  the  children,  not  forgetting  the 
youngest  one  with  the  fat  legs,  and  sent  them  off  to 
bed. 


The  Crowded  Curb. 

RECENTLY  I  came  on  an  urchin  in  the 
crowded  city,  pitching  pennies  by  himself,  in 
the  angle  of  an  abutment.  Three  feet  from 
his  patched  seat — a  gay  pattern  which  he  tilted  up- 
ward now  and  then — there  moved  a  thick  stream  of 
shoppers.  He  was  in  solitary  contest  with  himself, 
his  evening  papers  neglected  in  a  heap,  wrapped  in 
his  score,  unconscious  of  the  throng  that  pressed 
against  him.  He  was  resting  from  labor,  as  a  greater 
merchant  takes  to  golf  for  his  refreshment.  The  curb 
was  his  club.  He  had  fetched  his  recreation  down  to 
business,  to  the  vacancy  between  editions.  Presently 
he  will  scoop  his  earnings  to  his  pocket  and  will  bawl 
out  to  his  advantage  our  latest  murder. 

How  mad — ^how  delightful  our  streets  would  be  if 
all  of  us  followed  as  unreservedly,  with  so  little  self- 
consciousness  or  respect  of  small  convention,  our 
innocent  desires ! 

Who  of  us  even  whistles  in  a  crowd? — or  in  the 
spring  goes  with  a  skip  and  leap  ? 

A  lady  of  my  acquaintance — ^who  grows  plump  in 
her  early  forties — tells  me  that  she  has  always  wanted 
to  run  after  an  ice- wagon  and  ride  up  town,  bouncing 
on  the  tail-board.  It  is  doubtless  an  inheritance  from 
a  childhood  which  was  stifled  and  kept  in  starch.  A 
singer,  also,  of  bellowing  bass,  has  confided  to  me 


172  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

that  he  would  like  above  all  things  to  roar  his  tunes 
down  town  on  a  crowded  crossing.  The  trolley-cars, 
he  feels,  the  motors  and  all  the  shrill  instruments  of 
traffic,  are  no  more  than  a  sufficient  orchestra  for  his 
lusty  upper  register.  An  old  lady,  too,  in  the  daintiest 
of  lace  caps,  with  whom  I  lately  sat  at  dinner,  con- 
fessed that  whenever  she  has  seen  hop-scotch  chalked 
in  an  eddy  of  the  crowded  city,  she  has  been  tempted 
to  gather  up  her  skirts  and  join  the  play. 

But  none  of  these  folk  obey  their  instinct.  Opinion 
chills  them.  They  plod  the  streets  with  gray  exterior. 
Once,  on  Fifth  Avenue,  to  be  sure,  when  it  was  barely 
twilight,  I  observed  a  man,  suddenly,  without  warn- 
ing, perform  a  cart-wheel,  heels  over  head.  He  was 
dressed  in  the  common  fashion.  Surely  he  was  not 
an  advertisement.  He  bore  no  placard  on  his  hat. 
Nor  was  it  apparent  that  he  practiced  for  a  circus. 
Rather,  I  think,  he  was  resolved  for  once  to  let  the 
stiff,  censorious  world  go  by  unheeded,  and  be  himself 
alone. 

On  a  night  of  carnival  how  greedily  the  crowd 
assumes  the  pantaloon!  A  day  that  was  prim  and 
solemn  at  the  start  now  dresses  in  cap  and  bells.  How 
recklessly  it  stretches  its  charter  for  the  broadest  jest! 
Observe  those  men  in  women's  bonnets !  With  what 
delight  they  swing  their  merry  bladders  at  the  crowd ! 
They  are  hard  on  forty.  All  week  they  have  bent  to 
their  heavy  desks,  but  tonight  they  take  their  pay  of 
life.  The  years  are  a  sullen  garment,  but  on  a  night 
of  carnival  they  toss  it  off.    Blood  that  was  cold  and 


THE  CROWDED  CURB  173 

temperate  at  noon  now  feels  the  fire.  Scratch  a  man 
and  you  find  a  clown  inside.  It  was  at  the  celebration 
of  the  Armistice  that  I  followed  a  sober  fellow  for  a 
mile,  who  beat  incessantly  with  a  long  iron  spoon  on 
an  ash-can  top.  Almost  solemnly  he  advanced  among 
the  throng.  Was  it  joy  entirely  for  the  ending  of  the 
war?  Or  rather  was  he  not  yielding  at  last  to  an  old 
desire  to  parade  and  be  a  band?  The  glad  occasion 
merely  loosed  him  from  convention.  That  lady  friend 
of  mine,  in  the  circumstance,  would  have  bounced  on 
ice-wagons  up  to  midnight. 

For  it  is  convention,  rather  than  our  years — it  is  the 
respect  and  fear  of  our  neighbors  that  restrains  us  on 
an  ordinary  occasion.  If  we  followed  our  innocent 
desires  at  the  noon  hour,  without  waiting  for  a  carni- 
val, how  mad  our  streets  would  seem !  The  bellowing 
bass  would  pitch  back  his  head  and  lament  the  fair 
Isolde.  The  old  lady  in  lace  cap  would  tuck  up  her 
skirts  for  hop-scotch  and  score  her  goal  at  last. 

Is  it  not  the  French  who  set  aside  a  special  night 
for  foolery,  when  everyone  appears  in  fancy  costume  ? 
They  should  set  the  celebration  forward  in  the  day, 
and  let  the  blazing  sun  stare  upon  their  mirth.  Merri- 
ment should  not  wait  upon  the  owl. 

The  Dickey  Club  at  Harvard,  I  think,  was  fash- 
ioned with  some  such  purpose  of  release.  Its  initia- 
tion occurs  always  in  the  spring,  when  the  blood  of 
an  undergraduate  is  hottest  against  restraint.  It  is 
a  vent  placed  where  it  is  needed  most.  Zealously 
the  candidates  perform  their  pranks.     They  exceed 


m  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

the  letter  of  their  instruction.  The  streets  of  Boston 
are  a  silly  spectacle.  Young  men  wear  their  trousers 
inside  out  and  their  coats  reversed.  They  greet 
strangers  with  preposterous  speech.  I  once  came  on 
a  merry  fellow  eating  a  whole  pie  with  great  mouth- 
fuls  on  the  Court  House  steps,  explaining  meantime 
to  the  crowd  that  he  was  the  youngest  son  of  Little 
Jack  Horner.  And,  of  course,  with  such  a  hardened 
gourmand  for  an  ancestor,  he  was  not  embarrassed  by 
his  ridiculous  posture. 

But  it  is  not  youth  which  needs  the  stirring  most. 
Nor  need  one  necessarily  play  an  absurd  antic  to  be 
natural.  And  therefore,  here  at  home,  on  our  own 
Soldiers'  Monument — on  its  steps  and  pediment  that 
mount  above  the  street — I  offer  a  few  suggestions  to 
the  throng. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen!  I  invite  you  to  a  carnival. 
Here !  Now !  At  noon !  I  bid  you  to  throw  off  your 
solemn  pretense.  And  be  yourself!  That  sober 
manner  is  a  cloak.  Your  dignity  scarcely  reaches  to 
your  skin.  Does  no  one  desire  to  play  leap-frog 
across  those  posts?  Do  none  of  you  care  to  skip  and 
leap?    What!    Will  no  one  accept  my  invitation? 

You,  my  dear  sirs,  I  know  you.  You  play  chess 
together  every  afternoon  in  your  club.  One  of  you 
carries  at  this  moment  a  small  board  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  Why  hurry  to  your  club,  gentlemen?  Here 
on  this  step  is  a  place  to  play  your  game.  Surely  your 
concentration  is  proof  against  the  legs  that  swing 
around  you.    And  you,  my  dear  sir!    I  see  that  you 


THE  CROWDED  CURB  175 

are  a  scholar  by  your  bag  of  books.  You  chafe  for 
your  golden  studies.  Come,  sit  alongside  I  Here  is  a 
shady  spot  for  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  Did  not 
Socrates  ply  his  book  in  the  public  concourse? 

My  dear  young  lady,  it  is  evident  that  a  desire  has 
seized  you  to  practice  your  soprano  voice.  Why  do 
you  wait  for  your  solitary  piano  to  pitch  the  tune? 
On  these  steps  you  can  throw  your  trills  up  heaven- 
ward. 

An  ice- wagon!  With  a  tail-board!  Is  there  no 
lady  in  her  forties,  prim  in  youth,  who  will  take  her 
fling?  Or  does  no  gentleman  in  silk  hat  wish  a  piece 
of  ice  to  suck? 

Observe  that  good-natured  father  with  his  son! 
They  have  shopped  for  toys.  He  carries  a  bundle 
beneath  his  arm.  It  is  doubtless  a  mechanical  bear — 
a  creature  that  roars  and  walks  on  the  turning  of  a 
key.  After  supper  these  two  will  squat  together  on 
the  parlor  carpet  and  wind  it  up  for  a  trial  perform- 
ance. But  must  such  an  honest  pleasure  sit  for  the 
coming  of  the  twilight  ?  Break  the  string !  Insert  the 
key !  Let  the  fearful  creature  stride  boldly  among  the 
shoppers. 

Here  is  an  iron  balustrade  along  the  steps.  A  dozen 
of  you  desire,  secretly,  to  slide  down  its  slippery 
length. 

My  dear  madam,  it  is  plain  that  the  heir  is 
naughty.  Rightfully  you  have  withdrawn  his  lolly- 
pop.  And  now  he  resists  your  advance,  stiif -legged 
and  spunky.    Your  stern  eye  already  has  passed  its 


176  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

sentence.  You  merely  wait  to  get  him  home.  I  ofPer 
you  these  steps  in  heu  of  nursery  or  woodshed.  You 
have  only  to  tip  him  up.  Surely  the  flat  of  your  hdnd 
gains  no  cunning  by  delay. 

And  you,  my  dear  sir — you  who  twirl  a  silk  mous- 
tache— you  with  the  young  lady  on  your  arm!  If  I 
am  not  mistaken  you  will  woo  your  fair  companion  on 
this  summer  evening  beneath  the  moon.  Must  so  good 
a  deed  await  the  night?  Shall  a  lover's  arms  hang  idle 
all  the  day?  On  these  steps,  my  dear  sir,  a  kiss,  at 
least,  may  be  given  as  a  prelude. 

Hop-scotch!  Where  is  my  old  friend  of  the  lace 
cap  ?    The  game  is  already  chalked  upon  the  stones. 

Is  there  no  one  in  the  passing  throng  who  desires  to 
dance?  Are  there  no  toes  that  wriggle  for  release? 
My  dear  lady,  the  rhythmic  swish  of  your  skirt  betrays 
you.  A  tune  for  a  merry  waltz  runs  through  your 
head.  Come!  we'll  find  you  a  partner  in  the  crowd. 
Those  silk  stockings  of  yours  must  not  be  wasted  in  a 
mincing  gait. 

Have  lawyers,  walking  sourly  on  their  business,  any 
sweeter  nature  to  display  to  us?  Our  larger  mer- 
chants seem  covered  with  restraint  and  thought  of 
profit.  That  physician  with  his  bag  of  pellets  seems 
not  to  know  that  laughter  is  a  panacea.  Has  Labor 
no  desire  to  play  leap-frog  on  its  pick  and  go  shouting 
home  to  supper?  Housewives  follow  their  unfaltering 
noses  from  groceries  to  meats.  Will  neither  gingham 
nor  brocade  romp  and  cut  a  caper  for  us  ? 


THE  CROWDED  CURB  177 

Ladies  and  gentlemen!  Why  wait  for  a  night  of 
carnival?  Does  not  the  blood  flow  red,  also,  at  the 
noon  hour?  Must  the  moon  point  a  silly  finger  before 
you  start  your  merriment?    I  offer  you  these  steps. 

Is  there  no  one  who  will  whistle  in  the  crowd?  Will 
none  of  you,  even  in  the  spring,  go  with  a  skip  and  leap 
upon  your  business? 


A  Corner  for  Echoes. 


SOMETIMES  in  a  quiet  hour  I  see  in  the 
memory  of  my  childhood  a  frame  house  across 
a  wide  lawn  from  a  pleasant  street.  There  are 
no  trees  about  the  yard,  in  itself  a  defect,  yet  in  its 
circumstance,  as  the  house  arises  in  my  view,  the 
barrenness  denotes  no  more  than  a  breadth  of  sunlight 
across  those  endless  days. 

There  was,  indeed,  in  contrast  and  by  way  of 
shadowy  admonishment,  a  church  near  by,  whose  sober 
bell,  grieving  lest  our  joy  should  romp  too  long,  re- 
called us  to  fearful  introspection  on  Sunday  evening, 
and  it  moved  me  chiefly  to  the  thought  of  eternity — 
eternity  everlasting.  Reward  or  punishment  mattered 
not.  It  was  Time  itself  that  plagued  me.  Time  that 
rolled  like  a  wheel  forever  until  the  imagination  reeled 


A  CORNER  FOR  ECHOES  179 

and  sickened.  And  on  Thursday  evening  also — 
another  bad  intrusion  on  the  happy  week — again 
the  sexton  tugged  at  the  rope  for  prayer  and  the 
dismal  clapper  answered  from  above.  It  is  strange 
that  a  man  in  friendly  red  suspenders,  pipe  in  mouth 
as  he  pushed  his  lawn-mower  through  the  week,  should 
spread  such  desolation.  But  presently,  when  our 
better  neighbors  were  stiffly  gathered  in  and  had  com- 
posed their  skirts,  a  brisker  hymn  arose.  Tenor  and 
soprano  assured  one  another  vigorously  from  pew  to 
pew  that  they  were  Christian  soldiers  marching  as  to 
war.  When  they  were  off  at  last  for  the  fair  Jeru- 
salem, the  fret  of  eternity  passed  from  me.  And  yet, 
for  the  most  part,  we  played  in  sunlight  all  the  week, 
and  our  thoughts  dwelt  happily  on  wide  horizons. 

There  was  another  church,  far  off  across  the  house- 
tops, seen  only  from  an  attic  window,  whose  bells  in 
contrast  were  of  a  pleasant  jangle.  Exactly  where 
this  church  stood  I  never  knew.  Its  towers  arose 
above  a  neighbor's  barn  and  acknowledged  no  base  or 
local  habitation.  Indeed,  its  glittering  and  unsub- 
stantial spire  offered  a  hint  that  it  was  but  an  imagi- 
nary creature  of  the  attic,  a  pageant  that  mustered 
only  to  the  view  of  him  who  looked  out  through  these 
narrow,  cobwebbed  windows.  For  here,  as  in  a  kind 
of  magic,  the  twilight  flourished  at  the  noon  and  its 
shadows  practiced  beforehand  for  the  night.  Through 
these  windows  children  saw  the  unfamiliar,  distant 
marvels  of  the  world — towers  and  kingdoms  unseen 


180  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

by  older  eyes  that  were  grown  dusty  with  common 
sights. 

Yet  regularly,  out  of  a  noonday  stillness — except 
for  the  cries  of  the  butcher  boy  upon  the  steps — a 
dozen  clappers  of  the  tower  struck  their  sudden  din 
across  the  city.  It  appeared  that  at  the  very  moment 
of  the  noon,  having  lagged  to  the  utmost  second,  the 
frantic  clappers  had  bolted  up  the  belfry  stairs  to  call 
the  town  to  dinner.  Or  perhaps  to  an  older  ear  their 
discordant  and  heterodox  tongue  hinted  that  Roman 
infallibility  had  here  fallen  into  argument  and  that 
various  and  contrary  doctrine  was  laboring  in  warm 
dispute.  Certainly  the  clappers  were  brawling  in  the 
tower  and  had  come  to  blows.  But  a  half  mile  off  it 
was  an  agreeable  racket  and  did  not  rouse  up  eternity 
to  tease  me. 

Across  from  our  house,  but  at  the  rear,  with  only  an 
alley  entrance,  there  was  a  building  in  which  pies  were 
baked — a  horrid  factory  in  our  very  midst ! — and  inso- 
lent smoke  curled  off  the  chimney  and  flaunted  our 
imperfection.  Respectable  ladies,  long  resident,  wear- 
ing black  poke  bonnets  and  camel's-hair  shawls,  lifted 
their  patrician  eyebrows  with  disapproval.  Scorn  sat 
on  their  gentle  up-turned  noses.  They  held  their 
skirts  close,  in  passing,  from  contamination.  These 
pies  could  not  count  upon  their  patronage.  They  were 
contraband  even  in  a  pinch,  with  unexpected  guests 
arrived.  It  were  better  to  buy  of  Cobey,  the  grocer 
on  the  Circle.  And  the  building  did  smell  heavily  of 
its  commodity.    But  despite  detraction,  as  one  came 


A  CORNER  FOR  ECHOES  181 

from  school,  when  the  wind  was  north,  an  agreeable 
whiff  of  lard  and  cooking  touched  the  nostrils  as  a 
happy  prologue  to  one's  dinner.  Sometimes  a  cart 
issued  to  the  street,  boarded  close,  full  of  pies  on 
shelves,  and  rattled  cityward. 

The  fire  station  was  around  the  corner  and  down  a 
hill.  We  marveled  at  the  polished  engine,  the  harness 
that  hung  ready  from  the  ceiling,  the  poles  down  which 
the  firemen  slid  from  their  rooms  above.  It  was  at 
the  fire  station  that  we  got  the  baseball  score,  inning 
by  inning,  and  other  news,  if  it  was  worthy,  from  the 
outside  world.  But  perhaps  we  dozed  in  a  hammock 
or  were  lost  with  Ohver  Optic  in  a  jungle  when  the 
fire-bell  rang.  If  spry,  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
hook-and-ladder  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  or  the  horses 
galloping  up  the  slope.  But  would  none  of  our  neigh- 
bors ever  burn?  we  thought.  Must  all  candles  be 
overturned  far  off? 

Near  the  school-house  was  the  reservoir,  a  mound 
and  pond  covering  all  the  block.  Round  about  the 
top  there  was  a  gravel  path  that  commanded  the  city — 
the  belching  chimneys  on  the  river,  the  ships  upon  the 
lake,  and  to  the  south  a  horizon  of  wooded  hills.  The 
world  lay  across  that  tumbled  ridge  and  there  our 
thoughts  went  searching  for  adventure.  Perhaps 
these  were  the  foothills  of  the  Himalaya  and  from  the 
top  were  seen  the  towers  of  Babylon.  Perhaps  there 
was  an  ocean,  with  white  sails  which  were  blown 
from  the  Spanish  coast.  On  a  summer  afternoon 
clouds  drifted  across  the  sky,  like  mountains  on  a 


182  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

journey — emigrants,  they  seemed,  from  a  loftier 
range,  seeking  a  fresh  plain  on  which  to  erect  their 
fortunes. 

But  the  chief  use  of  this  reservoir,  except  for  its 
wholly  subsidiary  supply  of  water,  was  its  grassy 
slope.  It  was  usual  in  the  noon  recess — ^when  we  were 
cramped  with  learning — to  slide  down  on  a  barrel 
stave  and  be  wrecked  and  spilled  midway.  In  default 
of  stave  a  geography  served  as  sled,  for  by  noon  the 
most  sedentary  geography  itched  for  action.  Of  what 
profit — so  it  complained — is  a  knowledge  of  the  world 
if  one  is  cooped  always  with  stupid  primers  in  a  desk? 
Of  what  account  are  the  boundaries  of  Hindostan,  if 
one  is  housed  all  daj^  beneath  a  lid  with  slate  and 
pencils?  But  the  geography  required  an  exact  bal- 
ance, with  feet  lifted  forward  into  space,  and  with 
fingers  gripped  behind.  Our  present  geographies, 
alas,  are  of  smaller  surface,  and,  unless  students  have 
shrunk  and  shriveled,  their  more  profitable  use  upon 
a  hill  is  past.  Some  children  descended  without  stave 
or  book,  and  their  preference  was  marked  upon  their 
shining  seats. 

It  was  Hoppy  who  marred  this  sport.  Hoppy  was 
the  keeper  of  the  reservoir,  a  one-legged  Irishman 
with  a  crutch.  His  superfluous  trouser-leg  was  folded 
and  pinned  across,  and  it  was  a  general  quarry  for 
patches.  When  his  elbow  or  his  knees  came  through, 
here  was  a  remedy  at  hand.  Here  his  wife  clipped, 
also,  for  her  crazy  quilt.  And  all  the  little  Hoppies — 
for  I  fancy  him  to  have  been  a  family  man — were  rein- 


A  CORNER  FOR  ECHOES  183 

forced  from  this  extra  cloth.  But  when  Hoppy's  bad 
profile  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  hill  we  grabbed  our 
staves  and  scurried  off.  The  cry  of  warning — "Peg- 
leg's  a-comin'  " — still  haunts  my  memory.  It  was 
Hoppy's  reward  to  lead  one  of  us  smaller  fry  roughly 
by  the  ear.  Or  he  gripped  us  by  the  wrist  and  snapped 
his  stinging  finger  at  our  nose.  Then  he  pitched  us 
through  the  fence  where  a  wooden  slat  was  gone. 

Hoppy's  crutch  was  none  of  your  elaborate  affairs, 
curved  and  glossy.  Instead,  it  was  only  a  stout,  un- 
varnished stick,  with  a  padded  cross-piece  at  the  top. 
But  the  varlet  could  run,  leaping  forward  upon  us 
with  long,  uneven  strides.  And  I  have  wondered 
whether  Stevenson,  by  any  chance,  while  he  was  still 
pondering  the  plot  of  "Treasure  Island,"  may  not 
have  visited  our  city  and,  seeing  Hoppy  on  our  heels, 
have  contrived  John  Silver  out  of  him.  He  must  have 
built  him  anew  above  the  waist,  shearing  him  at  his 
suspender  buttons,  scrapping  his  common  upper  parts ; 
but  the  wooden  stump  and  breeches  were  a  precious 
salvage.  His  crutch,  at  the  least,  became  John 
Silver's  very  timber. 

The  Circle  was  down  the  street.  In  the  center  of 
this  sunny  park  there  arose  an  artificial  mountain, 
with  a  waterfall  that  trickled  off  the  rocks  pleasantly 
on  hot  days.  Ruins  and  blasted  towers,  battlements 
and  cement  grottoes,  were  still  the  fashion.  In  those 
days  masons  built  stony  belvederes  and  laid  pipes 
which  burst  forth  into  mountain  pools  a  good  ten  feet 
above  the  sidewalk.    The  cliff  upon  our  Circle,  with 


18Ji.  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

its  path  winding  upward  among  the  fern,  its  tiny- 
castle  on  the  peak  and  its  tinkle  of  little  water,  sprang 
from  this  romantic  period.  From  the  terrace  on  top 
one  could  spit  over  the  balustrade  on  the  unsuspecting 
folk  who  walked  below.  Later  the  town  had  a  me- 
chanical ship  that  sailed  around  the  pond.  As  often 
as  this  ship  neared  the  cliffs  the  mechanical  captain  on 
the  bridge  lifted  his  glasses  with  a  startled  jerk  and 
gave  orders  for  the  changing  of  the  course. 

Tinkey's  shop  was  on  the  Circle.  One  side  of 
Tinkey's  window  was  a  bakery  with  jelly-cakes  and 
angel- food.  This,  as  I  recall,  was  my  earliest  theology. 
Heaven,  certainly,  was  worth  the  effort.  The  other 
window  unbent  to  peppermint  sticks  and  grab-bags  to 
catch  our  dirtier  pennies.  But  this  meaner  produce 
was  a  concession  to  the  trade,  and  the  Tinkey  fingers, 
from  father  down  to  youngest  daughter,  touched  it 
with  scorn.  Mrs.  Tinkey,  in  particular,  who,  we 
thought,  was  above  her  place,  lifted  a  grab-bag  at 
arm's  length,  and  her  nostrils  quivered  as  if  she  held 
a  dead  mouse  by  the  tail. 

But  in  the  essence  Tinkey  was  a  caterer  and  his 
handiwork  was  shown  in  the  persons  of  a  frosted  bride 
and  groom  who  waited  before  a  sugar  altar  for  the 
word  that  would  make  them  man  and  wife.  Her  nose 
in  time  was  bruised — a  careless  lifting  of  the  glass  by 
the  youngest  Miss  Tinkey — but  he,  like  a  faithful 
suitor,  stood  to  his  youthful  pledge. 

Beyond  the  shop  was  a  room  with  blazing  red  wall 
paper  and  a  fiery  carpet.     In  this  hot  furnace,  out- 


A  CORNER  FOR  ECHOES  185 

rivaling  the  boasts  of  Abednego,  the  neighborhood 
perspired  pleasantly  on  August  nights,  and  ate  ice- 
cream. If  we  arose  to  the  price  of  a  Tinkey  layer- 
cake  thick  with  chocolate,  the  night  stood  out  in  splen- 
dor above  its  fellows. 

Around  the  corner  was  Conrad's  bookstore.  Con- 
rad was  a  dumpy  fellow  with  unending  good  humor 
and  a  fat,  soft  hand.  He  sometimes  called  lady  cus- 
tomers. My  dear,  but  it  was  only  in  his  eagerness  to 
press  a  sale.  I  do  not  recall  that  he  was  a  scholar. 
If  you  asked  to  be  shown  the  newest  books,  he  might 
offer  you  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  as  a  work  just  off 
the  press,  and  tell  you  that  Goldsmith  was  a  man  to 
watch.  A  young  woman  assistant  read  The  Duchess 
between  customers.  In  her  fancy  she  eloped  daily 
with  a  duke,  but  actually  she  kept  company  with  a 
grocer's  clerk.  They  ate  sodas  together  at  Tinkey's. 
How  could  he  know,  poor  fellow,  when  their  fingers 
met  beneath  the  table,  that  he  was  but  a  substitute  in 
her  high  romance?  At  the  very  moment,  in  her 
thoughts,  she  was  off  with  the  duke  beneath  the  moon. 
Conrad  had  also  an  errand  boy  with  a  dirty  face,  who 
spent  the  day  on  a  packing  case  at  the  rear  of  the  shop, 
where  he  ate  an  endless  succession  of  apples.  An 
orchard  went  through  him  in  the  season. 

Conrad's  shop  was  only  moderate  in  books,  but  it 
spread  itself  in  fancy  goods — crackers  for  the  Fourth 
— ^marbles  and  tops  in  their  season — and  for  Saint 
Valentine's  Day  a  range  of  sentiment  that  distanced 
his  competitors.    A  lover,  though  he  sighed  like  fur- 


186  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

nace,  found  here  mottoes  for  his  passion.  Also  there 
were  "comics" — base  insulting  valentines  of  suitable 
greeting  from  man  to  man.  These  were  three  for  a 
nickel  just  as  they  came  off  the  pile,  but  two  for  a 
nickel  with  selection. 

At  Christmas,  Conrad  displayed  china  inkstands. 
There  was  one  of  these  which,  although  often  near  a 
sale,  still  stuck  to  the  shelves  year  after  year.  The 
beauty  of  its  device  dwelt  in  a  little  negro  who  perched 
at  the  rear  on  a  rustic  fence  that  held  the  penholders. 
But  suddenly,  when  choice  was  wavering  in  his  favor, 
off  he  would  pitch  into  the  inkwell.  At  this  mischance 
Conrad  would  regularly  be  astonished,  and  he  would 
sell  instead  a  china  camel  whose  back  was  hollowed 
out  for  ink.  Then  he  laved  the  negro  for  the  twentieth 
time  and  set  him  back  upon  the  fence,  where  he  sat  like 
an  interrupted  suicide  with  his  dark  eye  again  upon 
the  pool. 

Nor  must  I  forget  a  line  of  Catholic  saints.  There 
was  one  jolly  bit  of  crockery — Saint  Patrick,  I  believe 
— that  had  lost  an  arm.  This  defect  should  have  been 
considered  a  further  mark  of  piety — a  martyrdom  un- 
recorded by  the  church — a  special  flagellation — but 
although  the  price  in  successive  years  sunk  to  thirty- 
nine  and  at  last  to  the  wholly  ridiculous  sum  of  twenty- 
three  cents — less  than  one  third  the  price  of  his  un- 
broken but  really  inferior  mates  ( Saint  Aloysius  and 
Saint  Anthony) — yet  he  lingered  on. 

Nowhere  was  there  a  larger  assortment  of  odd  and 
unmatched  letter  paper.    No  box  was  full  and  many 


A  CORNER  FOR  ECHOES  187 

were  soiled.  If  pink  envelopes  were  needed,  Conrad, 
unabashed,  laid  out  a  blue,  or  with  his  fat  thumb  he 
fumbled  two  boxes  into  one  to  complete  the  count. 
Initialed  paper  once  had  been  the  fashion — G  for 
Gladys — and  there  was  still  a  remnant  of  several 
letters  toward  the  end  of  the  alphabet.  If  one  of 
these  chanced  to  fit  a  customer,  with  what  zest  Conrad 
blew  upon  the  box  and  slapped  it!  But  until  Xeno- 
phon  and  Xerxes  shall  come  to  buy,  these  final  letters 
must  rest  unsold  upon  his  shelves. 

Conrad  was  a  dear  good  fellow  (Bless  me!  he  is 
still  alive — just  as  fat  and  bow-legged,  with  the  same 
soft  hand,  just  as  friendly!)  and  when  he  retired  at 
last  from  business  the  street  lost  half  its  mirth  and 
humor. 

Xear  Conrad's  shop  and  the  Circle  was  our  house. 
By  it  a  horse-car  jangled,  one  way  only,  cityward,  at 
intervals  of  twelve  minutes.  In  winter  there  was  straw 
on  the  floor.  In  front  was  a  fare-box  with  sliding 
shelves  down  which  the  nickels  rattled,  or,  if  one's 
memory  lagged,  the  thin  driver  rapped  his  whip- 
handle  on  the  glass.  He  sat  on  a  high  stool  which  was 
padded  to  eke  out  nature. 

Once  before,  as  I  have  read,  there  was  a  corner  for 
echoes.  The  buildings  were  set  so  that  the  quiet  folk 
who  dwelt  near  by  could  hear  the  sound  of  coming 
steps — steps  far  off,  then  nearer  until  they  tramped 
beneath  the  windows.  Then,  as  they  listened,  the 
sounds  faded.  And  it  seemed  to  him  who  chronicled 
the  place  that  he  heard  the  persons  of  his  drama 


188  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

coining — little  steps  that  would  grow  to  manhood, 
steps  that  faltered  already  toward  their  final  curtain. 
But  there  is  no  plot  to  thicken  around  our  corner.  Or 
rather,  there  are  a  hundred  plots.  And  when  I  listen 
in  fancy  to  the  echoes,  I  hear  the  general  tapping  of 
our  neighbors — beloved  feet  that  have  gone  into  dark- 
ness for  a  while. 

I  hear  the  footsteps  of  an  old  man.  When  he  trod 
our  street  he  was  of  gloomy  temper.  The  world  was 
awry  for  him.  He  was  sunk  in  despair  at  politics,  yet 
I  recall  that  he  relished  an  apple.  As  often  as  he 
stopped  to  see  us,  he  told  us  that  the  country  had  gone 
to  the  demnition  bow-wows,  and  he  snapped  at  his 
apple  as  if  it  had  been  a  Democrat.  His  little  dog 
ran  a  full  block  ahead  of  him  on  their  evening  stroll, 
and  always  trotted  into  our  gateway.  He  sat  on  the 
lowest  step  with  his  eyes  down  the  street.  "Master," 
he  seemed  to  say,  "here  we  all  are,  waiting  for  you." 

John  Smith  cut  the  grass  on  the  Circle.  He  was  a 
friend  of  children,  and,  for  his  nod  and  greeting,  I 
drove  down  street  my  span  of  tin  horses  on  a  wheel. 
Hand  in  hand  we  climbed  his  rocky  mountain  to  see 
where  the  waterfall  spurted  from  a  pipe.  Below,  the 
neighbors'  bonnets,  with  baskets,  went  to  shop  at 
Cobey's.  I  still  hear  the  click  of  his  lawn-mower  of 
a  summer  afternoon. 

Darky  Dan  beat  our  carpets.  He  was  a  merry 
fellow  and  he  sang  upon  the  street.  Wild  melodies 
they  were,  with  head  thrown  back  and  crazy  laughter. 
He  was  a  harmless,  good-natured  fellow,  but  nurse- 


A  CORNER  FOR  ECHOES  189 

maids  huddled  us  close  until  his  song  had  turned  the 
corner. 

I  recall  a  crippled  child — ^maybe  of  half  wit  only — 
who  dragged  a  broken  foot.  To  our  shame  he  seemed 
a  comic  creature  and  we  pelted  him  with  snowballs  and 
ran  from  his  piteous  anger. 

A  match-boy  with  red  hair  came  by  on  winter  nights 
and  was  warmed  beside  the  fire.  My  father  questioned 
him — as  one  merchant  to  another — about  his  business, 
and  mother  kept  him  in  mittens.  In  payment  for 
bread  and  jam  he  loosed  his  muffler  and  played  the 
mouth-organ.  In  turn  we  blew  upon  the  vents,  but 
as  music  it  was  naught.  Gone  is  that  melody.  The 
house  is  dark. 

There  was  an  old  lady  lived  near  by  in  almost  feudal 
state.  Her  steps  were  the  broadest  on  the  street,  her 
walnut  doors  were  carved  in  the  deepest  pattern,  her 
fence  was  the  highest.  Her  furniture,  the  year 
around,  was  covered  in  linen  cloths,  and  the  great 
chairs  with  their  claw  feet  resembled  the  horses  in 
panoply  that  draw  the  chariot  of  the  Nubian  Queen 
in  the  circus  parade.  With  this  old  lady  there  lived 
an  old  cook,  an  old  second-maid,  an  old  laundress  and 
an  old  coachman.  The  second-maid  thrust  a  platter 
at  you  as  you  sat  at  table  and  nudged  you  in  the  ribs — 
if  you  were  a  child — "Eat  it,"  she  said,  "it's  good!" 
The  coachman  nodded  on  his  box,  the  laundress  in  her 
tubs,  but  the  cook  was  spry  despite  her  years.  In  the 
yard  there  was  a  fountain — all  yards  had  fountains 
then — and  I  used  to  wonder  whether  this  were  the 


190  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

font  of  Ponce  de  Leon  that  restored  the  aged  to  their 
youth.  Here,  surely,  was  the  very  house  to  test  the 
cure.  And  when  the  ancient  laundress  came  by  I 
speculated  whether,  after  a  sudden  splash,  she  would 
emerge  a  dazzhng  princess. 

With  this  old  lady  there  dwelt  a  niece,  or  a 
daughter,  or  a  younger  sister — relationship  was  vague 
— and  this  niece  owned  a  little  black  dog.  But  the 
old  lady  was  dull  of  sight  and  in  the  dark  passages  of 
her  house  she  waved  her  arm  and  kept  saying,  "Whisk, 
Nigger!  Whisk,  Nigger!"  for  she  had  stepped  once 
on  the  creature's  tail.  Every  year  she  gave  a  chil- 
dren's party,  and  we  youngsters  looked  for  magic  in 
a  mirror  and  went  to  Jerusalem  around  her  solemn 
chairs.  She  had  bought  toys  and  trinkets  from 
Europe  for  all  of  us. 

Then  there  was  an  old  neighbor,  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  who,  being  devoid  of  much  knowledge  of  the 
law,  put  his  cases  to  my  grandfather.  When  he  had 
been  advised,  he  stroked  his  beard  and  said  it  was  an 
opinion  to  which  he  had  come  himself.  He  went  down 
the  steps  mumbling  the  judgment  to  keep  it  in  his 
memory. 

It  was  my  grandfather's  custom  in  the  late  after- 
noon of  summer,  when  the  sun  had  slanted,  to  pull  a 
chair  off  the  veranda  and  sit  sprinkling  the  lawn  with 
his  crutch  beside  him.  Toward  supper  Mr.  Hodge, 
a  building  contractor  and  our  neighbor,  went  by.  His 
wagon  usually  rattled  with  some  bit  of  salvage — per- 
haps an  iron  bath-tub  plucked  from  a  building  before 


A  CORNER  FOR  ECHOES  191 

he  wrecked  it,  or  a  kitchen  sink.  His  yard  was  piled 
with  the  fruitage  of  his  profession.  Mr.  Hodge  was 
of  sociable  turn  and  he  cried  "whoa  to  his  jogging  horse. 

Now  ensued  a  half -hour's  gossip.  It  was  the 
comedy  of  the  occasion  that  the  horse,  after  having 
made  several  attempts  to  start  and  been  stopped  by 
a  jerking  of  the  reins,  took  to  craftiness.  He  put 
forward  a  hoof,  quite  carelessly  it  seemed.  If  there 
was  no  protest,  in  time  he  tried  a  diagonal  hoof  behind. 
It  was  then  but  a  shifting  of  the  weight  to  swing 
forward  a  step.  "Whoa!"  yelled  Mr.  Hodge.  "Yes, 
yes,"  the  old  horse  seemed  to  answer,  "certainly,  of 
course,  yes,  yes!  But  can't  a  fellow  shift  his  legs?" 
In  this  way  the  sly  brute  inched  toward  supper.  My 
grandfather  enjoyed  this  comedy,  and  once,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  I  caught  him  exchanging  a  wink  with 
the  horse.  Certainly  the  beast  was  glancing  round  to 
find  a  partner  for  his  jest.  A  conversation,  begun  at 
the  standpipe,  progressed  to  the  telegraph  pole,  and 
at  last  came  opposite  the  kitchen.  As  my  grandfather 
did  not  move  his  chair,  Mr.  Hodge  lifted  his  voice 
until  the  neighborhood  knew  the  price  of  brick  and 
the  unworthiness  of  plumbers.  Mr.  Hodge  was  a 
Republican  and  he  spoke  in  favor  of  the  tariff.  To 
clinch  an  argument  he  had  a  usual  formula.  "It's 
neither  here  nor  there,"  and  he  brought  his  fist  against 
the  dashboard,  ''it's  right  here"  But  finally  the 
hungry  horse  prevailed,  Mr.  Hodge  slapped  the  reins 
in  consent  and  they  rattled  home  to  supper. 

Around  this  corner,  also,  there  are  echoes  of  chil- 


192  HINTS  TO  PILGRIMS 

dren's  feet — racing  feet  upon  the  grass — feet  that  lag 
in  the  morning  on  the  way  to  school  and  run  back  at 
four  o'clock — feet  that  leap  the  hitching  posts  or  avoid 
the  sidewalk  cracks.  Girls'  feet  rustle  in  the  fallen 
leaves,  and  they  think  their  skirts  are  silk.  And  I  hear 
dimly  the  cries  of  hide-and-seek  and  pull-away  and  the 
merriment  of  blindman's  buflp.  One  lad  rises  in  my 
memory  who  won  our  marbles.  Another  excelled  us 
all  when  he  threw  his  top.  His  father  was  a  grocer 
and  we  envied  him  his  easy  access  to  the  candy  counter. 

And  particularly  I  remember  a  little  girl  with 
yellow  curls  and  blue  eyes.  She  was  the  Sleeping 
Beauty  in  a  Christmas  play.  I  had  known  her  before 
in  daytime  gingham  and  I  had  judged  her  to  be  as 
other  girls — creatures  that  tag  along  and  spoil  the 
fun.  But  now,  as  she  rested  in  laces  for  the  picture, 
she  dazzled  my  imagination;  for  I  was  the  silken 
Prince  to  awaken  her.  For  a  week  I  wished  to  run 
to  sea,  sink  a  pirate  ship,  and  be  worthy  of  her  love. 
But  then  a  sewer  was  dug  along  the  street  and  I  was 
a  miner  instead — recusant  to  love — digging  in  the 
yellow  sand  for  the  center  of  the  earth. 

But  chiefly  it  is  the  echo  of  older  steps  I  hear — 
steps  whose  sound  is  long  since  stilled — feet  that  have 
crossed  the  horizon  and  have  gone  on  journey  for  a 
while.  And  when  I  listen  I  hear  echoes  that  are 
fading  into  silence. 


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